Like the lone emigrant who seeks a homeIn the wild regions of the far-off west,And where, as yet, no foot of man hath come,Rears a rude dwelling for his future rest.Like him I have sought out a solitudeWhere all around me is unsullied yet,And reared a tenement of words as rudeAs the first hut on Indian prairies set.O'er his poor house ere thrice the seasons treadTheir march of storm and sunshine o'er the land,Some lofty pile will rear its haughty head,And sway the soil with high and proud command.And round my verse the better, brighter thoughtOf beauty and of genius will be placed—Those gem-like words, with light and music fraught,By manly or by fairy fingers traced.Our fate's the same—the gentle and the proudWill speed their voyage to oblivion's sea,And I shall soon be lost amid the crowdThat seek a place within thy memory.
Like the lone emigrant who seeks a homeIn the wild regions of the far-off west,And where, as yet, no foot of man hath come,Rears a rude dwelling for his future rest.
Like him I have sought out a solitudeWhere all around me is unsullied yet,And reared a tenement of words as rudeAs the first hut on Indian prairies set.
O'er his poor house ere thrice the seasons treadTheir march of storm and sunshine o'er the land,Some lofty pile will rear its haughty head,And sway the soil with high and proud command.
And round my verse the better, brighter thoughtOf beauty and of genius will be placed—Those gem-like words, with light and music fraught,By manly or by fairy fingers traced.
Our fate's the same—the gentle and the proudWill speed their voyage to oblivion's sea,And I shall soon be lost amid the crowdThat seek a place within thy memory.
BY WILLIS G. CLARK
Gone to the slumber which may know no wakingTill the loud requiem of the world shall swell;Gone! where no sound thy still repose is breaking,In a lone mansion through long years to dwell;Where the sweet gales that herald bud and blossom,Pour not their music nor their fragrant breath:A seal is set upon thy budding bosom,A bond of loneliness—a spell of death!Yet 'twas but yesterday that all before theeShone in the freshness of life's morning hours;Joy's radiant smile was playing briefly o'er thee,And thy light feet impressed but vernal flowers.The restless spirit charmed thy sweet existence,Making all beauteous in youth's pleasant maze,While gladsome hope illumed the onward distance,And lit with sunbeams thy expectant days.How have the garlands of thy childhood withered,And hope's false anthem died upon the air!Death's cloudy tempests o'er thy way have gathered,And his stern bolts have burst in fury there.On thy pale forehead sleeps the shade of even,Youth's braided wreath lies stained in sprinkled dust,Yet looking upward in its grief to Heaven,Love should not mourn thee, save in hope and trust.
Gone to the slumber which may know no wakingTill the loud requiem of the world shall swell;Gone! where no sound thy still repose is breaking,In a lone mansion through long years to dwell;Where the sweet gales that herald bud and blossom,Pour not their music nor their fragrant breath:A seal is set upon thy budding bosom,A bond of loneliness—a spell of death!
Yet 'twas but yesterday that all before theeShone in the freshness of life's morning hours;Joy's radiant smile was playing briefly o'er thee,And thy light feet impressed but vernal flowers.The restless spirit charmed thy sweet existence,Making all beauteous in youth's pleasant maze,While gladsome hope illumed the onward distance,And lit with sunbeams thy expectant days.
How have the garlands of thy childhood withered,And hope's false anthem died upon the air!Death's cloudy tempests o'er thy way have gathered,And his stern bolts have burst in fury there.On thy pale forehead sleeps the shade of even,Youth's braided wreath lies stained in sprinkled dust,Yet looking upward in its grief to Heaven,Love should not mourn thee, save in hope and trust.
BY R. C. SANDS.—1820.
Go forth, sad fragments of a broken strain,The last that either bard shall e'er essay!The hand can ne'er attempt the chords again,That first awoke them, in a happier day:Where sweeps the ocean breeze its desert way,His requiem murmurs o'er the moaning wave;And he who feebly now prolongs the layShall ne'er the minstrel's hallowed honours crave;His harp lies buried deep in that untimely grave!Friend of my youth,[M]with thee began the loveOf sacred song; the wont, in golden dreams,'Mid classic realms of splendours past to rove,O'er haunted steep, and by immortal streams;Where the blue wave, with sparkling bosom gleamsRound shores, the mind's eternal heritage,For ever lit by memory's twilight beams;Where the proud dead, that live in storied page,Beckon, with awful port, to glory's earlier age.There would we linger oft, entranc'd, to hear,O'er battle fields the epic thunders roll;Or list, where tragic wail upon the ear,Through Argive palaces shrill echoing, stole;There would we mark, uncurbed by all control,In central heaven, the Theban eagle's flight;Or hold communion with the musing soulOf sage or bard, who sought, 'mid pagan night,In lov'd Athenian groves, for truth's eternal light.Homeward we turned, to that fair land, but lateRedeemed from the strong spell that bound it fast,Where mystery, brooding o'er the waters, sateAnd kept the key, till three millenniums past;When, as creation's noblest work was last,Latest, to man it was vouchsafed, to seeNature's great wonder, long by clouds o'ercast,And veiled in sacred awe, that it might beAn empire and a home, most worthy for the free.And here, forerunners strange and meet were found,Of that bless'd freedom, only dreamed before;—Dark were the morning mists, that lingered roundTheir birth and story, as the hue they bore."Earth was their mother;"—or they knew no more,Or would not that their secret should be told;For they were grave and silent; and such lore,To stranger ears, they loved not to unfold,The long-transmitted tales their sires were taught of old.Kind nature's commoners, from her they drewTheir needful wants, and learn'd not how to hoard;And him whom strength and wisdom crowned, they knew,But with no servile reverence, as their lord.And on their mountain summits they adoredOne great, good Spirit, in his high abode,And thence their incense and orisons pouredTo his pervading presence, that abroadThey felt through all his works,—their Father, King, and God.And in the mountain mist, the torrent's spray,The quivering forest, or the glassy flood,Soft falling showers, or hues of orient day,They imaged spirits beautiful and good;But when the tempest roared, with voices rude,Or fierce, red lightning fired the forest pine,Or withering heats untimely seared the wood,The angry forms they saw of powers malign;These they besought to spare, those blest for aid divine.As the fresh sense of life, through every vein,With the pure air they drank, inspiring came,Comely they grew, patient of toil and pain,And as the fleet deer's agile was their frame;Of meaner vices scarce they knew the name;These simple truths went down from sire to son,—To reverence age,—the sluggish hunter's shame,And craven warrior's infamy to shun,—And still avenge each wrong, to friends or kindred done.From forest shades they peered, with awful dread,When, uttering flame and thunder from its side,The ocean-monster, with broad wings outspread,Came ploughing gallantly the virgin tide.Few years have pass'd, and all their forests' prideFrom shores and hills has vanished, with the race,Their tenants erst, from memory who have died,Like airy shapes, which eld was wont to trace,In each green thicket's depths, and lone, sequestered place.And many a gloomy tale, tradition yetSaves from oblivion, of their struggles vain,Their prowess and their wrongs, for rhymer meet,To people scenes, where still their names remain;And so began our young, delighted strain,That would evoke the plumed chieftains brave,And bid their martial hosts arise again,Where Narraganset's tides roll by their grave,And Haup's romantic steeps are piled above the wave.Friend of my youth! with thee began my song,And o'er thy bier its latest accents die;Misled in phantom-peopled realms too long,—Though not to me the muse averse deny,Sometimes, perhaps, her visions to descry,Such thriftless pastime should with youth be o'er;And he who loved with thee his notes to try,But for thy sake, such idlesse would deplore,And swears to meditate the thankless muse no more.But, no! the freshness of the past shall stillSacred to memory's holiest musings be;When through the ideal fields of song, at will,He roved and gathered chaplets wild with thee;When, reckless of the world, alone and free,Like two proud barks, we kept our careless way,That sail by moonlight o'er the tranquil sea;Their white apparel and their streamers gay,Bright gleaming o'er the main, beneath the ghostly ray;—And downward, far, reflected in the clearBlue depths, the eye their fairy tackling sees;So buoyant, they do seem to float in air,And silently obey the noiseless breeze;Till, all too soon, as the rude winds may please,They part for distant ports: the gales benignSwift wafting, bore, by Heaven's all-wise decrees,To its own harbour sure, where each divineAnd joyous vision, seen before in dreams, is thine.Muses of Helicon! melodious raceOf Jove and golden-haired Mnemosyné;Whose art from memory blots each sadder trace,And drives each scowling form of grief away!Who, round the violet fount, your measures gayOnce trod, and round the altar of great Jove;Whence, wrapt in silvery clouds, your nightly wayYe held, and ravishing strains of music wove,That soothed the Thunderer's soul, and filled his courts above.Bright choir! with lips untempted, and with zoneSparkling, and unapproached by touch profane;Ye, to whose gladsome bosoms ne'er was knownThe blight of sorrow, or the throb of pain;Rightly invoked,—if right the elected swain,On your own mountain's side ye taught of yore,Whose honoured hand took not your gift in vain,Worthy the budding laurel-bough it bore,—[N]Farewell! a long farewell! I worship you no more.
Go forth, sad fragments of a broken strain,The last that either bard shall e'er essay!The hand can ne'er attempt the chords again,That first awoke them, in a happier day:Where sweeps the ocean breeze its desert way,His requiem murmurs o'er the moaning wave;And he who feebly now prolongs the layShall ne'er the minstrel's hallowed honours crave;His harp lies buried deep in that untimely grave!
Friend of my youth,[M]with thee began the loveOf sacred song; the wont, in golden dreams,'Mid classic realms of splendours past to rove,O'er haunted steep, and by immortal streams;Where the blue wave, with sparkling bosom gleamsRound shores, the mind's eternal heritage,For ever lit by memory's twilight beams;Where the proud dead, that live in storied page,Beckon, with awful port, to glory's earlier age.
There would we linger oft, entranc'd, to hear,O'er battle fields the epic thunders roll;Or list, where tragic wail upon the ear,Through Argive palaces shrill echoing, stole;There would we mark, uncurbed by all control,In central heaven, the Theban eagle's flight;Or hold communion with the musing soulOf sage or bard, who sought, 'mid pagan night,In lov'd Athenian groves, for truth's eternal light.
Homeward we turned, to that fair land, but lateRedeemed from the strong spell that bound it fast,Where mystery, brooding o'er the waters, sateAnd kept the key, till three millenniums past;When, as creation's noblest work was last,Latest, to man it was vouchsafed, to seeNature's great wonder, long by clouds o'ercast,And veiled in sacred awe, that it might beAn empire and a home, most worthy for the free.
And here, forerunners strange and meet were found,Of that bless'd freedom, only dreamed before;—Dark were the morning mists, that lingered roundTheir birth and story, as the hue they bore."Earth was their mother;"—or they knew no more,Or would not that their secret should be told;For they were grave and silent; and such lore,To stranger ears, they loved not to unfold,The long-transmitted tales their sires were taught of old.
Kind nature's commoners, from her they drewTheir needful wants, and learn'd not how to hoard;And him whom strength and wisdom crowned, they knew,But with no servile reverence, as their lord.And on their mountain summits they adoredOne great, good Spirit, in his high abode,And thence their incense and orisons pouredTo his pervading presence, that abroadThey felt through all his works,—their Father, King, and God.
And in the mountain mist, the torrent's spray,The quivering forest, or the glassy flood,Soft falling showers, or hues of orient day,They imaged spirits beautiful and good;But when the tempest roared, with voices rude,Or fierce, red lightning fired the forest pine,Or withering heats untimely seared the wood,The angry forms they saw of powers malign;These they besought to spare, those blest for aid divine.
As the fresh sense of life, through every vein,With the pure air they drank, inspiring came,Comely they grew, patient of toil and pain,And as the fleet deer's agile was their frame;Of meaner vices scarce they knew the name;These simple truths went down from sire to son,—To reverence age,—the sluggish hunter's shame,And craven warrior's infamy to shun,—And still avenge each wrong, to friends or kindred done.
From forest shades they peered, with awful dread,When, uttering flame and thunder from its side,The ocean-monster, with broad wings outspread,Came ploughing gallantly the virgin tide.Few years have pass'd, and all their forests' prideFrom shores and hills has vanished, with the race,Their tenants erst, from memory who have died,Like airy shapes, which eld was wont to trace,In each green thicket's depths, and lone, sequestered place.
And many a gloomy tale, tradition yetSaves from oblivion, of their struggles vain,Their prowess and their wrongs, for rhymer meet,To people scenes, where still their names remain;And so began our young, delighted strain,That would evoke the plumed chieftains brave,And bid their martial hosts arise again,Where Narraganset's tides roll by their grave,And Haup's romantic steeps are piled above the wave.
Friend of my youth! with thee began my song,And o'er thy bier its latest accents die;Misled in phantom-peopled realms too long,—Though not to me the muse averse deny,Sometimes, perhaps, her visions to descry,Such thriftless pastime should with youth be o'er;And he who loved with thee his notes to try,But for thy sake, such idlesse would deplore,And swears to meditate the thankless muse no more.
But, no! the freshness of the past shall stillSacred to memory's holiest musings be;When through the ideal fields of song, at will,He roved and gathered chaplets wild with thee;When, reckless of the world, alone and free,Like two proud barks, we kept our careless way,That sail by moonlight o'er the tranquil sea;Their white apparel and their streamers gay,Bright gleaming o'er the main, beneath the ghostly ray;—
And downward, far, reflected in the clearBlue depths, the eye their fairy tackling sees;So buoyant, they do seem to float in air,And silently obey the noiseless breeze;Till, all too soon, as the rude winds may please,They part for distant ports: the gales benignSwift wafting, bore, by Heaven's all-wise decrees,To its own harbour sure, where each divineAnd joyous vision, seen before in dreams, is thine.
Muses of Helicon! melodious raceOf Jove and golden-haired Mnemosyné;Whose art from memory blots each sadder trace,And drives each scowling form of grief away!Who, round the violet fount, your measures gayOnce trod, and round the altar of great Jove;Whence, wrapt in silvery clouds, your nightly wayYe held, and ravishing strains of music wove,That soothed the Thunderer's soul, and filled his courts above.
Bright choir! with lips untempted, and with zoneSparkling, and unapproached by touch profane;Ye, to whose gladsome bosoms ne'er was knownThe blight of sorrow, or the throb of pain;Rightly invoked,—if right the elected swain,On your own mountain's side ye taught of yore,Whose honoured hand took not your gift in vain,Worthy the budding laurel-bough it bore,—[N]Farewell! a long farewell! I worship you no more.
BY JONATHAN LAWRENCE, JUN.
Away, away to forest shades!Fly, fly with me the haunts of men!I would not give my sunlit glades,My talking stream, and silent glen,For all the pageantry of slaves,Their fettered lives and trampled graves.Away from wealth! our wampum stringsAsk not the toil, the woes of themFrom whom the lash, the iron wringsThe golden dross, the tear-soiled gem;Yet bind our hearts in the pure tieThat gold or gems could never buy.And power! what is it ye who ruleThe hands without the souls? oh, yeCan tell how mean the tinselled fool,With all his hollow mockery!The slave of slaves who hate, yet bow,With serving lip but scorning brow.And love, dear love! how can they feelThe wild desire, the burning flame,That thrills each pulse and bids us kneel—The power of the adored name;The glance that sins in the met eye,Yet loved for its idolatry!They never knew the perfect bliss,To clasp in the entwined bowerHer trembling form, to steal the kissShe would deny but hath not power;To list that voice that charms the grove,And trembles when it tells of love.Nor have they felt the pride, the thrill,When bounding for the fated deer;O'er rock and sod, o'er vale and hill,The hunter flies, nor dreams of fear,And brings his maid the evening prey,To speak more love than words can say.Have they in death the sod, the stones,The silence of the shading tree;Where glory decks the storied bonesOf him whose life, whose death, was free;And minstrel mourns his arm whose blowThe foeman cowered and quailed below?No; they, confined and fettered, theyThe sons of sires to fame unknown,With nerveless hands and souls of clay,Half life, half death, loathe, but live on;And sink unsung, ignobly lieIn dark oblivion's apathy.Poor fools! the wild and mountain chaseWould rend their frail and sickly forms;But for their God, how would they face,Our bands of fire, our sons of storms;Breasts that have never recked of fears,And eyes that leave to women, tears.They tell us of their kings, who gaveTo them our wild, unfettered shore;To them! why let them chain the wave,And hush its everlasting roar!Then may we own their sway, but hark!Our warriors never miss their mark.Away, away from such as these!Free as the wild bird on the wing,I see my own, my loved green trees,I hear our black-haired maidens sing;I fly from such a world as this,To rove, to love, to live in bliss!
Away, away to forest shades!Fly, fly with me the haunts of men!I would not give my sunlit glades,My talking stream, and silent glen,For all the pageantry of slaves,Their fettered lives and trampled graves.
Away from wealth! our wampum stringsAsk not the toil, the woes of themFrom whom the lash, the iron wringsThe golden dross, the tear-soiled gem;Yet bind our hearts in the pure tieThat gold or gems could never buy.
And power! what is it ye who ruleThe hands without the souls? oh, yeCan tell how mean the tinselled fool,With all his hollow mockery!The slave of slaves who hate, yet bow,With serving lip but scorning brow.
And love, dear love! how can they feelThe wild desire, the burning flame,That thrills each pulse and bids us kneel—The power of the adored name;The glance that sins in the met eye,Yet loved for its idolatry!
They never knew the perfect bliss,To clasp in the entwined bowerHer trembling form, to steal the kissShe would deny but hath not power;To list that voice that charms the grove,And trembles when it tells of love.
Nor have they felt the pride, the thrill,When bounding for the fated deer;O'er rock and sod, o'er vale and hill,The hunter flies, nor dreams of fear,And brings his maid the evening prey,To speak more love than words can say.
Have they in death the sod, the stones,The silence of the shading tree;Where glory decks the storied bonesOf him whose life, whose death, was free;And minstrel mourns his arm whose blowThe foeman cowered and quailed below?
No; they, confined and fettered, theyThe sons of sires to fame unknown,With nerveless hands and souls of clay,Half life, half death, loathe, but live on;And sink unsung, ignobly lieIn dark oblivion's apathy.
Poor fools! the wild and mountain chaseWould rend their frail and sickly forms;But for their God, how would they face,Our bands of fire, our sons of storms;Breasts that have never recked of fears,And eyes that leave to women, tears.
They tell us of their kings, who gaveTo them our wild, unfettered shore;To them! why let them chain the wave,And hush its everlasting roar!Then may we own their sway, but hark!Our warriors never miss their mark.
Away, away from such as these!Free as the wild bird on the wing,I see my own, my loved green trees,I hear our black-haired maidens sing;I fly from such a world as this,To rove, to love, to live in bliss!
BY WILLIAM DUER.
Fair orb! so peacefully sublime,In silence rolling high,Know'st thou of passion, or of crime,Or earthly vanity?In that bright world can lust abide,Or murder bare his arm?With thee are wars, and kings, and pride,And the loud trump's alarm?What beings, by what motives led,Inhale thy morning breeze?Doth man upon thy mountains tread,Or float upon thy seas?Say, whence are they? and what their fate?Whom whirls around thy ball?Their present and their future state,Their hopes and fears recall?Canst thou of a Redeemer tell,Or a Betrayer's kiss?Their's is a Heaven or a Hell?Eternal woe or bliss?Can infidelity exist,And gaze upon that sky?Here would I bid the AtheistGod's finger to deny.What horrid sounds! what horrid sights!What wretched blood is spilt!While thou, and all the eternal lights,Shine conscious on the guilt?Thou hear'st red Murder's victims cry;Thou mark'st Lust's stealthy pace;And Avarice hide his heap and sigh;And Rapine's reckless face.In thy pale light the Suicide,By some deep lonely lake,Or from the headlong torrent's sideDoth the vain world forsake.And often, ere thy course is run,Thy cold, uncertain lightGleams where the culprit's skeletonSwings to the winds of night.A light cloud hangs upon thy brow,(What foul deed would it hide?)'Tis gone: thine orb, unshaded now,Looks down on human pride.And now the midnight hour invitesTh' accursed witch's vow,While to her thrice accursed ritesSole witness rollest thou!Lo! underneath yon falling towerThe tottering beldame seeksHerbs, of some hidden evil power,While muttered charms she speaks.Or where some noisome cavern yawns,Where vipers get their food,Or where the Nile's huge offspring spawnsHer pestilential brood:There—while the bubbling cauldron singsBeneath their eldritch glance—As wild their fiendish laughter rings,The haggard sisters dance.Can sin endure thy majesty,Nor thy pure presence fly?'Tis like the sad severityOf a fond father's eye.There, where no mortal eye can see,No mortal voice can tell,Wisdom hath marked thy path to beTh' Almighty's sentinel.
Fair orb! so peacefully sublime,In silence rolling high,Know'st thou of passion, or of crime,Or earthly vanity?
In that bright world can lust abide,Or murder bare his arm?With thee are wars, and kings, and pride,And the loud trump's alarm?
What beings, by what motives led,Inhale thy morning breeze?Doth man upon thy mountains tread,Or float upon thy seas?
Say, whence are they? and what their fate?Whom whirls around thy ball?Their present and their future state,Their hopes and fears recall?
Canst thou of a Redeemer tell,Or a Betrayer's kiss?Their's is a Heaven or a Hell?Eternal woe or bliss?
Can infidelity exist,And gaze upon that sky?Here would I bid the AtheistGod's finger to deny.
What horrid sounds! what horrid sights!What wretched blood is spilt!While thou, and all the eternal lights,Shine conscious on the guilt?
Thou hear'st red Murder's victims cry;Thou mark'st Lust's stealthy pace;And Avarice hide his heap and sigh;And Rapine's reckless face.
In thy pale light the Suicide,By some deep lonely lake,Or from the headlong torrent's sideDoth the vain world forsake.
And often, ere thy course is run,Thy cold, uncertain lightGleams where the culprit's skeletonSwings to the winds of night.
A light cloud hangs upon thy brow,(What foul deed would it hide?)'Tis gone: thine orb, unshaded now,Looks down on human pride.
And now the midnight hour invitesTh' accursed witch's vow,While to her thrice accursed ritesSole witness rollest thou!
Lo! underneath yon falling towerThe tottering beldame seeksHerbs, of some hidden evil power,While muttered charms she speaks.
Or where some noisome cavern yawns,Where vipers get their food,Or where the Nile's huge offspring spawnsHer pestilential brood:
There—while the bubbling cauldron singsBeneath their eldritch glance—As wild their fiendish laughter rings,The haggard sisters dance.
Can sin endure thy majesty,Nor thy pure presence fly?'Tis like the sad severityOf a fond father's eye.
There, where no mortal eye can see,No mortal voice can tell,Wisdom hath marked thy path to beTh' Almighty's sentinel.
BY THOMAS SLIDELL.
There is a tree, whose boughs are cladWith foliage that never dies;Whose fruits perennially thrive,And whose tall top salutes the skies.There is a flower of loveliest hues,No mildews blast its changeless bloom;It smiles at the rude tempest's wrath,And breathes a still more sweet perfume.There is a star, whose constant raysBeam brightest in the darkest hour,And cheer the weary pilgrim's heart,Though storms around his pathway lower.That tree, the Tree of Life is called,That flower blooms on Virtue's stem,That star, whose rays are never veiled,Is the bright Star of Bethlehem.
There is a tree, whose boughs are cladWith foliage that never dies;Whose fruits perennially thrive,And whose tall top salutes the skies.
There is a flower of loveliest hues,No mildews blast its changeless bloom;It smiles at the rude tempest's wrath,And breathes a still more sweet perfume.
There is a star, whose constant raysBeam brightest in the darkest hour,And cheer the weary pilgrim's heart,Though storms around his pathway lower.
That tree, the Tree of Life is called,That flower blooms on Virtue's stem,That star, whose rays are never veiled,Is the bright Star of Bethlehem.
BY J. K. PAULDING.
Old cradle of an infant world,In which a nestling empire lay,Struggling awhile, ere she unfurl'd,Her gallant wing and soar'd away;All hail! thou birth-place of the glowing west,Thou seem'st the towering eagle's ruin'd nest!What solemn recollections throng,What touching visions rise,As wand'ring these old stones among,I backward turn mine eyes,And see the shadows of the dead flit round,Like spirits, when the last dread trump shall sound.The wonders of an age combin'dIn one short moment memory supplies,They throng upon my waken'd mind,As time's dark curtains rise.The volume of a hundred buried years,Condens'd in one bright sheet, appears.I hear the angry ocean rave,I see the lonely little barqueScudding along the crested wave,Freighted like old Noah's ark,As o'er the drowned earth it whirl'd,With the forefathers of another world.I see a train of exiles stand,Amid the desert, desolate,The fathers of my native land,The daring pioneers of fate,Who brav'd the perils of the sea and earth,And gave a boundless empire birth.I see the gloomy Indian rangeHis woodland empire, free as air;I see the gloomy forest change,The shadowy earth laid bare;And, where the red man chas'd the bounding deer,The smiling labours of the white appear.I see the haughty warrior gazeIn wonder or in scorn,As the pale faces sweat to raiseTheir scanty fields of corn,While he, the monarch of the boundless wood,By sport, or hair-brain'd rapine, wins his food.A moment, and the pageant's gone;The red men are no more;The pale fac'd strangers stand aloneUpon the river's shore;And the proud wood king, who their arts disdain'd,Finds but a bloody grave where once he reign'd.The forest reels beneath the strokeOf sturdy woodman's axe;The earth receives the white man's yoke,And pays her willing taxOf fruits, and flowers, and golden harvest fields,And all that nature to blithe labour yields.Then growing hamlets rear their heads,And gathering crowds expand,Far as my fancy's vision spreads,O'er many a boundless land,Till what was once a world of savage strife,Teems with the richest gifts of social life.Empire to empire swift succeeds,Each happy, great, and free;One empire still another breeds,A giant progeny,To war upon the pigmy gods of earth,The tyrants, to whom ignorance gave birth.Then, as I turn, my thoughts to traceThe fount whence these rich waters sprung,I glance towards this lonely place,And find it, these rude stones among.Here rest the sires of millions, sleeping sound,The Argonauts, the golden fleece that found.Their names have been forgotten long;The stone, but not a word, remains;They cannot live in deathless song,Nor breathe in pious strains.Yet this sublime obscurity, to meMore touching is, than poet's rhapsody.They live in millions that now breathe;They live in millions yet unborn,And pious gratitude shall wreatheAs bright a crown as e'er was worn,And hang it on the green leav'd bough,That whispers to the nameless dead below.No one that inspiration drinks;No one that loves his native land;No one that reasons, feels, or thinks,Can 'mid these lonely ruins stand,Without a moisten'd eye, a grateful tearOf reverent gratitude to those that moulder here.The mighty shade now hovers round—OfHIMwhose strange, yet bright career,Is written on this sacred groundIn letters that no time shall sere;Who in the old world smote the turban'd crew,And founded Christian Empires in the new.AndSHE! the glorious Indian maid,The tutelary of this land,The angel of the woodland shade,The miracle of God's own hand,Who join'd man's heart to woman's softest grace,And thrice redeem'd the scourgers of her race.Sister of charity and love,Whose life-blood was soft Pity's tide,Dear Goddess of the Sylvan grove.Flower of the Forest, nature's pride,He is no man who does not bend the knee,And she no woman who is not like thee!Jamestown, and Plymouth's hallow'd rock,To me shall ever sacred be—I care not who my themes may mock,Or sneer at them and me.I envy not the brute who here can stand,Without a prayer for his own native land.And if the recreant crawlherearth,Or breathe Virginia's air,Or, in New-England claim his birth,From the old Pilgrim's there,He is a bastard, if he dare to mock,Old Jamestown's shrine, or Plymouth's famous rock.
Old cradle of an infant world,In which a nestling empire lay,Struggling awhile, ere she unfurl'd,Her gallant wing and soar'd away;All hail! thou birth-place of the glowing west,Thou seem'st the towering eagle's ruin'd nest!
What solemn recollections throng,What touching visions rise,As wand'ring these old stones among,I backward turn mine eyes,And see the shadows of the dead flit round,Like spirits, when the last dread trump shall sound.
The wonders of an age combin'dIn one short moment memory supplies,They throng upon my waken'd mind,As time's dark curtains rise.The volume of a hundred buried years,Condens'd in one bright sheet, appears.
I hear the angry ocean rave,I see the lonely little barqueScudding along the crested wave,Freighted like old Noah's ark,As o'er the drowned earth it whirl'd,With the forefathers of another world.
I see a train of exiles stand,Amid the desert, desolate,The fathers of my native land,The daring pioneers of fate,Who brav'd the perils of the sea and earth,And gave a boundless empire birth.
I see the gloomy Indian rangeHis woodland empire, free as air;I see the gloomy forest change,The shadowy earth laid bare;And, where the red man chas'd the bounding deer,The smiling labours of the white appear.
I see the haughty warrior gazeIn wonder or in scorn,As the pale faces sweat to raiseTheir scanty fields of corn,While he, the monarch of the boundless wood,By sport, or hair-brain'd rapine, wins his food.
A moment, and the pageant's gone;The red men are no more;The pale fac'd strangers stand aloneUpon the river's shore;And the proud wood king, who their arts disdain'd,Finds but a bloody grave where once he reign'd.
The forest reels beneath the strokeOf sturdy woodman's axe;The earth receives the white man's yoke,And pays her willing taxOf fruits, and flowers, and golden harvest fields,And all that nature to blithe labour yields.
Then growing hamlets rear their heads,And gathering crowds expand,Far as my fancy's vision spreads,O'er many a boundless land,Till what was once a world of savage strife,Teems with the richest gifts of social life.
Empire to empire swift succeeds,Each happy, great, and free;One empire still another breeds,A giant progeny,To war upon the pigmy gods of earth,The tyrants, to whom ignorance gave birth.
Then, as I turn, my thoughts to traceThe fount whence these rich waters sprung,I glance towards this lonely place,And find it, these rude stones among.Here rest the sires of millions, sleeping sound,The Argonauts, the golden fleece that found.
Their names have been forgotten long;The stone, but not a word, remains;They cannot live in deathless song,Nor breathe in pious strains.Yet this sublime obscurity, to meMore touching is, than poet's rhapsody.
They live in millions that now breathe;They live in millions yet unborn,And pious gratitude shall wreatheAs bright a crown as e'er was worn,And hang it on the green leav'd bough,That whispers to the nameless dead below.
No one that inspiration drinks;No one that loves his native land;No one that reasons, feels, or thinks,Can 'mid these lonely ruins stand,Without a moisten'd eye, a grateful tearOf reverent gratitude to those that moulder here.
The mighty shade now hovers round—OfHIMwhose strange, yet bright career,Is written on this sacred groundIn letters that no time shall sere;Who in the old world smote the turban'd crew,And founded Christian Empires in the new.
AndSHE! the glorious Indian maid,The tutelary of this land,The angel of the woodland shade,The miracle of God's own hand,Who join'd man's heart to woman's softest grace,And thrice redeem'd the scourgers of her race.
Sister of charity and love,Whose life-blood was soft Pity's tide,Dear Goddess of the Sylvan grove.Flower of the Forest, nature's pride,He is no man who does not bend the knee,And she no woman who is not like thee!
Jamestown, and Plymouth's hallow'd rock,To me shall ever sacred be—I care not who my themes may mock,Or sneer at them and me.I envy not the brute who here can stand,Without a prayer for his own native land.
And if the recreant crawlherearth,Or breathe Virginia's air,Or, in New-England claim his birth,From the old Pilgrim's there,He is a bastard, if he dare to mock,Old Jamestown's shrine, or Plymouth's famous rock.
BY JONATHAN LAWRENCE, JUN.
[The following lines were suggested by an anecdote said to havebeen related by the late Dr. Godman, of the ship-boy who was aboutto fall from the rigging, and was only saved by the mate'scharacteristic exclamation,"Look aloft, you lubber."]In the tempest of life, when the wave and the galeAre around and above, if thy footing should fail—If thine eye should grow dim and thy caution depart—"Look aloft" and be firm, and be fearless of heart.If the friend, who embraced in prosperity's glowWith a smile for each joy and a tear for each woe,Should betray thee when sorrow like clouds are arrayed,"Look aloft" to the friendship which never shall fade.Should the visions which hope spreads in light to thine eye,Like the tints of the rainbow, but brighten to fly,Then turn, and through tears of repentant regret,"Look aloft" to the sun that is never to set.Should they who are dearest, the son of thy heart—The wife of thy bosom—in sorrow depart,"Look aloft," from the darkness and dust of the tomb,To that soil where "affection is ever in bloom."And oh! when death comes in terrors, to cast,His fears on the future, his pall on the past,In that moment of darkness, with hope in thy heart,And a smile in thine eye, "look aloft" and depart!
[The following lines were suggested by an anecdote said to havebeen related by the late Dr. Godman, of the ship-boy who was aboutto fall from the rigging, and was only saved by the mate'scharacteristic exclamation,"Look aloft, you lubber."]
In the tempest of life, when the wave and the galeAre around and above, if thy footing should fail—If thine eye should grow dim and thy caution depart—"Look aloft" and be firm, and be fearless of heart.
If the friend, who embraced in prosperity's glowWith a smile for each joy and a tear for each woe,Should betray thee when sorrow like clouds are arrayed,"Look aloft" to the friendship which never shall fade.
Should the visions which hope spreads in light to thine eye,Like the tints of the rainbow, but brighten to fly,Then turn, and through tears of repentant regret,"Look aloft" to the sun that is never to set.
Should they who are dearest, the son of thy heart—The wife of thy bosom—in sorrow depart,"Look aloft," from the darkness and dust of the tomb,To that soil where "affection is ever in bloom."
And oh! when death comes in terrors, to cast,His fears on the future, his pall on the past,In that moment of darkness, with hope in thy heart,And a smile in thine eye, "look aloft" and depart!
BY WILLIAM LIVINGSTON.—1747.
Father of Light! exhaustless source of good!Supreme, eternal, self-existent God!Before the beamy sun dispensed a ray,Flamed in the azure vault, and gave the day;Before the glimmering moon with borrow'd lightShone queen amid the silver host of night,High in the heavens, thou reign'dst superior Lord,By suppliant angels worshipp'd and adored.With the celestial choir then let me joinIn cheerful praises to the power divine.To sing thy praise, do thou, O God! inspireA mortal breast with more than mortal fire.In dreadful majesty thou sitt'st enthroned,With light encircled, and with glory crown'd:Through all infinitude extends thy reign,For thee, nor heaven, nor heaven of heavens contain;But though thy throne is fix'd above the skyThy omnipresence fills immensity.
Father of Light! exhaustless source of good!Supreme, eternal, self-existent God!Before the beamy sun dispensed a ray,Flamed in the azure vault, and gave the day;Before the glimmering moon with borrow'd lightShone queen amid the silver host of night,High in the heavens, thou reign'dst superior Lord,By suppliant angels worshipp'd and adored.With the celestial choir then let me joinIn cheerful praises to the power divine.To sing thy praise, do thou, O God! inspireA mortal breast with more than mortal fire.In dreadful majesty thou sitt'st enthroned,With light encircled, and with glory crown'd:Through all infinitude extends thy reign,For thee, nor heaven, nor heaven of heavens contain;But though thy throne is fix'd above the skyThy omnipresence fills immensity.
BY LUCRETIA M. DAVIDSON.
His faults were great, his virtues less,His mind a burning lamp of Heaven;His talents were bestowed to bless,But were as vainly lost as given.His was a harp of heavenly sound,The numbers wild, and bold, and clear;But ah! some demon, hovering round,Tuned its sweet chords to Sin and Fear.His was a mind of giant mould,Which grasped at all beneath the skies;And his, a heart, so icy cold,That virtue in its recess dies.
His faults were great, his virtues less,His mind a burning lamp of Heaven;His talents were bestowed to bless,But were as vainly lost as given.
His was a harp of heavenly sound,The numbers wild, and bold, and clear;But ah! some demon, hovering round,Tuned its sweet chords to Sin and Fear.
His was a mind of giant mould,Which grasped at all beneath the skies;And his, a heart, so icy cold,That virtue in its recess dies.
BY J. G. BROOKS.
Joy kneels at morning's rosy prime,In worship to the rising sun;But Sorrow loves the calmer time,When the day-god his course hath run;When night is on her shadowy car,Pale Sorrow wakes while Joy doth sleep;And guided by the evening star,She wanders forth to muse and weep.Joy loves to cull the summer flower,And wreath it round his happy brow;But when the dark autumnal hourHath laid the leaf and blossoms low;When the frail bud hath lost its worth,And Joy hath dashed it from his crest;Then Sorrow takes it from the earth,To wither on her withered breast.
Joy kneels at morning's rosy prime,In worship to the rising sun;But Sorrow loves the calmer time,When the day-god his course hath run;When night is on her shadowy car,Pale Sorrow wakes while Joy doth sleep;And guided by the evening star,She wanders forth to muse and weep.
Joy loves to cull the summer flower,And wreath it round his happy brow;But when the dark autumnal hourHath laid the leaf and blossoms low;When the frail bud hath lost its worth,And Joy hath dashed it from his crest;Then Sorrow takes it from the earth,To wither on her withered breast.
BY LUCRETIA M. DAVIDSON.
Thou brightly-glittering star of even,Thou gem upon the brow of Heaven,Oh! were this fluttering spirit free,How quick 'twould spread its wings to thee.How calmly, brightly dost thou shine,Like the pure lamp in Virtue's shrine!Sure the fair world which thou may'st boastWas never ransomed, never lost.There, beings pure as Heaven's own air,Their hopes, their joys together share;While hovering angels touch the string,And seraphs spread the sheltering wing.There cloudless days and brilliant nights,Illumed by Heaven's refulgent lights;There seasons, years, unnoticed roll,And unregretted by the soul.Thou little sparkling star of even,Thou gem upon an azure Heaven,How swiftly will I soar to theeWhen this imprisoned soul is free.
Thou brightly-glittering star of even,Thou gem upon the brow of Heaven,Oh! were this fluttering spirit free,How quick 'twould spread its wings to thee.
How calmly, brightly dost thou shine,Like the pure lamp in Virtue's shrine!Sure the fair world which thou may'st boastWas never ransomed, never lost.
There, beings pure as Heaven's own air,Their hopes, their joys together share;While hovering angels touch the string,And seraphs spread the sheltering wing.
There cloudless days and brilliant nights,Illumed by Heaven's refulgent lights;There seasons, years, unnoticed roll,And unregretted by the soul.
Thou little sparkling star of even,Thou gem upon an azure Heaven,How swiftly will I soar to theeWhen this imprisoned soul is free.
BY WASHINGTON IRVING.
In a wild, tranquil vale, fringed with forests of green,Where nature had fashion'd a soft, sylvan scene,The retreat of the ring-dove, the haunt of the deer,Passaic in silence roll'd gentle and clear.No grandeur of prospect astonish'd the sight,No abruptness sublime mingled awe with delight;Here the wild flow'ret blossom'd, the elm proudly waved,And pure was the current the green bank that laved.But the spirit that ruled o'er the thick tangled wood,And deep in its gloom fix'd his murky abode,Who loved the wild scene that the whirlwinds deform,And gloried in thunder, and lightning and storm;All flush'd from the tumult of battle he came,Where the red men encounter'd the children of flame,While the noise of the war-whoop still rang in his ears,And the fresh bleeding scalp as a trophy he bears:With a glance of disgust he the landscape survey'd,With its fragrant wild flowers, its wide-waving shade;—Where Passaic meanders through margins of green,So transparent its waters, its surface serene.He rived the green hills, the wild woods he laid low;He taught the pure stream in rough channels to flow;He rent the rude rock, the steep precipice gave,And hurl'd down the chasm the thundering wave.Countless moons have since rolled in the long lapse of time—Cultivation has softened those features sublime;The axe of the white man has lighten'd the shade,And dispell'd the deep gloom of the thicketed glade.But the stranger still gazes with wondering eye,On the rocks rudely torn, and groves mounted on high;Still loves on the cliff's dizzy borders to roam,Where the torrent leaps headlong embosom'd in foam.
In a wild, tranquil vale, fringed with forests of green,Where nature had fashion'd a soft, sylvan scene,The retreat of the ring-dove, the haunt of the deer,Passaic in silence roll'd gentle and clear.
No grandeur of prospect astonish'd the sight,No abruptness sublime mingled awe with delight;Here the wild flow'ret blossom'd, the elm proudly waved,And pure was the current the green bank that laved.
But the spirit that ruled o'er the thick tangled wood,And deep in its gloom fix'd his murky abode,Who loved the wild scene that the whirlwinds deform,And gloried in thunder, and lightning and storm;
All flush'd from the tumult of battle he came,Where the red men encounter'd the children of flame,While the noise of the war-whoop still rang in his ears,And the fresh bleeding scalp as a trophy he bears:
With a glance of disgust he the landscape survey'd,With its fragrant wild flowers, its wide-waving shade;—Where Passaic meanders through margins of green,So transparent its waters, its surface serene.
He rived the green hills, the wild woods he laid low;He taught the pure stream in rough channels to flow;He rent the rude rock, the steep precipice gave,And hurl'd down the chasm the thundering wave.
Countless moons have since rolled in the long lapse of time—Cultivation has softened those features sublime;The axe of the white man has lighten'd the shade,And dispell'd the deep gloom of the thicketed glade.
But the stranger still gazes with wondering eye,On the rocks rudely torn, and groves mounted on high;Still loves on the cliff's dizzy borders to roam,Where the torrent leaps headlong embosom'd in foam.
BY THE REV. WILLIAM CROSWELL.
[There is a beautiful rill in Barbary received into alarge basin, which bears name signifying"Drink and Away,"from the great danger of meeting with gues and assassins.—Dr. Shaw.]Up! pilgrim and rover,Redouble thy haste!Nor rest thee till overLife's wearisome waste.Ere the wild forest rangerThy footsteps betrayTo trouble and danger,—Oh, drink and away!Here lurks the dark savageBy night and by day,To rob and to ravage,Nor scruples to slay.He waits for the slaughter:The blood of his preyShall stain the still water,—Then drink and away!With toil though thou languish,The mandate obey,Spur on, though in anguish,There's death in delay!No blood-hound, want-wasted,Is fiercer than they:—Pass by it untested—Or drink and away!Though sore be the trial,Thy God is thy stay,Though deep the denial,Yield not in dismay,But, wrapt in high vision,Look on to the dayWhen the fountains ElysianThy thirst shall allay.There shalt thou for everEnjoy thy reposeWhere life's gentle riverEternally flows,Yea, there shalt thou rest theeFor ever and aye,With none to molest thee—Then, drink and away.
[There is a beautiful rill in Barbary received into alarge basin, which bears name signifying"Drink and Away,"from the great danger of meeting with gues and assassins.—Dr. Shaw.]
Up! pilgrim and rover,Redouble thy haste!Nor rest thee till overLife's wearisome waste.Ere the wild forest rangerThy footsteps betrayTo trouble and danger,—Oh, drink and away!
Here lurks the dark savageBy night and by day,To rob and to ravage,Nor scruples to slay.He waits for the slaughter:The blood of his preyShall stain the still water,—Then drink and away!
With toil though thou languish,The mandate obey,Spur on, though in anguish,There's death in delay!No blood-hound, want-wasted,Is fiercer than they:—Pass by it untested—Or drink and away!
Though sore be the trial,Thy God is thy stay,Though deep the denial,Yield not in dismay,But, wrapt in high vision,Look on to the dayWhen the fountains ElysianThy thirst shall allay.
There shalt thou for everEnjoy thy reposeWhere life's gentle riverEternally flows,Yea, there shalt thou rest theeFor ever and aye,With none to molest thee—Then, drink and away.
BY MARGARETTA V. FAUGERES, 1793.
Through many a blooming wild and woodland greenThe Hudson's sleeping waters winding stray;Now 'mongst the hills its silvery waves are seen,And now through arching willows steal away:Now more majestic rolls the ample tide,Tall waving elms its clovery borders shade,And many a stately dome, in ancient pride,And hoary grandeur, there exalts its head.There trace the marks of culture's sunburnt hand,The honeyed buck-wheat's clustering blossoms view,Dripping rich odours, mark the beard-grain bland,The loaded orchard, and the flax field blue;The grassy hill, the quivering poplar grove,The copse of hazel, and the tufted bank,The long green valley where the white flocks rove,The jutting rock, o'erhung with ivy dank;The tall pines waving on the mountain's brow,Whose lofty spires catch day's last lingering beam;The bending willow weeping o'er the stream,The brook's soft gurglings, and the garden's glow.Low sunk between the Alleganian hills,For many a league the sullen waters glide,And the deep murmur of the crowded tide,With pleasing awe the wondering voyager fills.On the green summit of yon lofty cliftA peaceful runnel gurgles clear and slow,Then down the craggy steep-side dashing swift,Tremendous falls in the white surge below.Here spreads a clovery lawn its verdure far,Around it mountains vast their forests rear,And long ere day hath left its burnish'd car,The dews of night have shed their odours there.There hangs a loüring rock across the deep;Hoarse roar the waves its broken base around;Through its dark caverns noisy whirlwinds sweep,While Horror startles at the fearful sound.The shivering sails that cut the fluttering breeze,Glide through these winding rocks with airy sweep:Beneath the cooling glooms of waving trees,And sloping pastures speck'd with fleecy sheep.
Through many a blooming wild and woodland greenThe Hudson's sleeping waters winding stray;Now 'mongst the hills its silvery waves are seen,And now through arching willows steal away:Now more majestic rolls the ample tide,Tall waving elms its clovery borders shade,And many a stately dome, in ancient pride,And hoary grandeur, there exalts its head.
There trace the marks of culture's sunburnt hand,The honeyed buck-wheat's clustering blossoms view,Dripping rich odours, mark the beard-grain bland,The loaded orchard, and the flax field blue;The grassy hill, the quivering poplar grove,The copse of hazel, and the tufted bank,The long green valley where the white flocks rove,The jutting rock, o'erhung with ivy dank;The tall pines waving on the mountain's brow,Whose lofty spires catch day's last lingering beam;The bending willow weeping o'er the stream,The brook's soft gurglings, and the garden's glow.
Low sunk between the Alleganian hills,For many a league the sullen waters glide,And the deep murmur of the crowded tide,With pleasing awe the wondering voyager fills.On the green summit of yon lofty cliftA peaceful runnel gurgles clear and slow,Then down the craggy steep-side dashing swift,Tremendous falls in the white surge below.Here spreads a clovery lawn its verdure far,Around it mountains vast their forests rear,And long ere day hath left its burnish'd car,The dews of night have shed their odours there.There hangs a loüring rock across the deep;Hoarse roar the waves its broken base around;Through its dark caverns noisy whirlwinds sweep,While Horror startles at the fearful sound.The shivering sails that cut the fluttering breeze,Glide through these winding rocks with airy sweep:Beneath the cooling glooms of waving trees,And sloping pastures speck'd with fleecy sheep.
BY ANTHONY BLEECKER.
Ob: 1827.