Nay, ask me not, my dearest! why silent I remain—Not often will my feelings speak in smooth and measured strain.The joy that fills my heart, in the love I bear to thee,Too deeply in that heart is shrined, by words expressed to be;And thousand thoughts of tenderness, that in my bosom throng,Are all too bright and blessed to be manacled in song.This is thy birth-day, dearest—the fairest of the year—To many giving gladness, but to me of all most dear;The birth-day of my happiness, which sprang to life with thee,As hope springs in the captive's breast with the hour that sets him free.I hail its happy dawning, with a love like that which fillsMy heart for thee, my pure one, when thy kind voice in it thrills.I bless it and its memories, and the blessing which I give,Is fervent as the dying man's to him who bids him live—But the joy I have in thee, dear love, speaks not in echoes loud,Nor will its tranquil flowing be revealed before a crowd.
Nay, ask me not, my dearest! why silent I remain—Not often will my feelings speak in smooth and measured strain.The joy that fills my heart, in the love I bear to thee,Too deeply in that heart is shrined, by words expressed to be;And thousand thoughts of tenderness, that in my bosom throng,Are all too bright and blessed to be manacled in song.This is thy birth-day, dearest—the fairest of the year—To many giving gladness, but to me of all most dear;The birth-day of my happiness, which sprang to life with thee,As hope springs in the captive's breast with the hour that sets him free.I hail its happy dawning, with a love like that which fillsMy heart for thee, my pure one, when thy kind voice in it thrills.I bless it and its memories, and the blessing which I give,Is fervent as the dying man's to him who bids him live—But the joy I have in thee, dear love, speaks not in echoes loud,Nor will its tranquil flowing be revealed before a crowd.
TO THE MEMORY OF COL. WOOD OF THE UNITED STATES' ARMY,
WHO FELL AT THE SORTIE OF ERIE.
BY THE LATE GEN. J. MORTON.
What though on foeman's land he fell,No stone the sacred spot to tell,Yet where the noble Hudson's wavesIts shores of lofty granite laves,The loved associates of his youth,Who knew his worth—his spotless truth,Have bade the marble column rise,To bid the world that worth to prize;To teach the youth like him aspire,And never-fading fame acquire;Like him on Glory's wings to rise,To reach, to pierce the azure skies.And oft the Patriottherewill sigh,And Sorrow oft cloud Beauty's eye,Whene'er fond memory brings againThe Youth who sleeps on Erie's plain.
What though on foeman's land he fell,No stone the sacred spot to tell,Yet where the noble Hudson's wavesIts shores of lofty granite laves,The loved associates of his youth,Who knew his worth—his spotless truth,Have bade the marble column rise,To bid the world that worth to prize;To teach the youth like him aspire,And never-fading fame acquire;Like him on Glory's wings to rise,To reach, to pierce the azure skies.And oft the Patriottherewill sigh,And Sorrow oft cloud Beauty's eye,Whene'er fond memory brings againThe Youth who sleeps on Erie's plain.
BY WILLIAM LEGGETT.
The youth whose bark is guided o'erA summer stream by zephyr's breath,With idle gaze delights to poreOn imaged skies that glow beneath.But should a fleeting storm ariseTo shade awhile the watery way,Quick lifts to heaven his anxious eyes,And speeds to reach some sheltering bay.'Tis thus down time's eventful tide,While prosperous breezes gently blow,In life's frail bark we gaily glideOur hopes, our thoughts all fixed below.But let one cloud the prospect dim,The wind its quiet stillness mar,At once we raise our prayer to HimWhose light is life's best guiding star.
The youth whose bark is guided o'erA summer stream by zephyr's breath,With idle gaze delights to poreOn imaged skies that glow beneath.But should a fleeting storm ariseTo shade awhile the watery way,Quick lifts to heaven his anxious eyes,And speeds to reach some sheltering bay.
'Tis thus down time's eventful tide,While prosperous breezes gently blow,In life's frail bark we gaily glideOur hopes, our thoughts all fixed below.But let one cloud the prospect dim,The wind its quiet stillness mar,At once we raise our prayer to HimWhose light is life's best guiding star.
WRITTEN IN DEJECTION AND SORROW FOR LOST TIME.
BY JOHN INMAN.
Whence come, my soul, these gloomy dreams,That darken thus my waking hours?And whence this blighting cloud, that seemsTo wither all thy better powers?What is this cankering worm that clingsAround my heart with deadly strain,That o'er my thoughts its mildew flings,And makes my life one age of pain?I find no joy in home or friends—E'en music's voice has lost its spell—To me the rose no perfume lends,And mirth and I have said farewell.I dare not think upon the past,Where dwells remembrance, fraught with pain;Of youth's pure joys that could not last,And hopes I ne'er shall know again.I dare not ask the coming yearsWhat gifts their onward flight shall bring;For what but grief, and shame, and tears,From wasted time and powers can spring?Yet I can deck my cheek with smiles,And teach my heart to seem to glow,Though colder than those Northern islesOf ice and everlasting snow.Upon the frozen surface there,With tenfold light the sunbeams play—But false the dazzling gleam as fair—No verdure springs beneath the ray.And falser yet the laughing eye—The cheek that wears a seeming smile—The heart that hides its misery,And breaks beneath its load the while.
Whence come, my soul, these gloomy dreams,That darken thus my waking hours?And whence this blighting cloud, that seemsTo wither all thy better powers?What is this cankering worm that clingsAround my heart with deadly strain,That o'er my thoughts its mildew flings,And makes my life one age of pain?
I find no joy in home or friends—E'en music's voice has lost its spell—To me the rose no perfume lends,And mirth and I have said farewell.I dare not think upon the past,Where dwells remembrance, fraught with pain;Of youth's pure joys that could not last,And hopes I ne'er shall know again.
I dare not ask the coming yearsWhat gifts their onward flight shall bring;For what but grief, and shame, and tears,From wasted time and powers can spring?Yet I can deck my cheek with smiles,And teach my heart to seem to glow,Though colder than those Northern islesOf ice and everlasting snow.
Upon the frozen surface there,With tenfold light the sunbeams play—But false the dazzling gleam as fair—No verdure springs beneath the ray.And falser yet the laughing eye—The cheek that wears a seeming smile—The heart that hides its misery,And breaks beneath its load the while.
BY ROSWELL PARK.
Bird of the gentle wing,Songster of air,Home, from thy wandering,Dost thou repair?Art thou deserted then,Wilder'd and lone?Come to my breast again,Beautiful one.Here in the rosy bedsHover anew;Eating the garden seeds,Sipping the dew:Then in my bowerThe fragrance inhaleOf each lovely flowerThat waves in the gale.When the bright morning star,Rising on high,Day's early harbinger,Shines in the sky,Then shall thy numbers,So lively and gay,Rouse me from slumbers,To welcome the day.When the still evening comes,Tranquil and clear;When the dull beetle roams,Drumming the air;Then, on the willow-treesShading the door,Sing me thy melodiesOver once more.Thus shall the moments flySweetly along,Tuned to thy minstrelsy,Cheered by thy song;Till as the light declinesFar in the west,Thou, 'mid the trellis'd vines,Hush thee to rest.
Bird of the gentle wing,Songster of air,Home, from thy wandering,Dost thou repair?Art thou deserted then,Wilder'd and lone?Come to my breast again,Beautiful one.
Here in the rosy bedsHover anew;Eating the garden seeds,Sipping the dew:Then in my bowerThe fragrance inhaleOf each lovely flowerThat waves in the gale.
When the bright morning star,Rising on high,Day's early harbinger,Shines in the sky,Then shall thy numbers,So lively and gay,Rouse me from slumbers,To welcome the day.
When the still evening comes,Tranquil and clear;When the dull beetle roams,Drumming the air;Then, on the willow-treesShading the door,Sing me thy melodiesOver once more.
Thus shall the moments flySweetly along,Tuned to thy minstrelsy,Cheered by thy song;Till as the light declinesFar in the west,Thou, 'mid the trellis'd vines,Hush thee to rest.
BY MISS ELIZABETH BOGART.
She's bid adieu to the midnight ball,And cast the gems aside,Which glittered in the lighted hall:Her tears she cannot hide.She weeps not that the dance is o'er,The music and the song;She weeps not that her steps no moreAre follow'd by the throng.Her memory seeks one form aloneWithin that crowded hall;Her truant thoughts but dwell on oneAt that gay midnight ball.And thence her tears unbidden flow—She's bid adieu to him;The light of love is darken'd now—All other lights are dim.She throws the worthless wreath awayThat deck'd her shining hair;She tears apart the bright bouquetOf flowrets rich and rare.The leaves lie scattered at her feet,She heeds not where they fall;She sees in them an emblem meetTo mark the midnight-ball.
She's bid adieu to the midnight ball,And cast the gems aside,Which glittered in the lighted hall:Her tears she cannot hide.She weeps not that the dance is o'er,The music and the song;She weeps not that her steps no moreAre follow'd by the throng.
Her memory seeks one form aloneWithin that crowded hall;Her truant thoughts but dwell on oneAt that gay midnight ball.And thence her tears unbidden flow—She's bid adieu to him;The light of love is darken'd now—All other lights are dim.
She throws the worthless wreath awayThat deck'd her shining hair;She tears apart the bright bouquetOf flowrets rich and rare.The leaves lie scattered at her feet,She heeds not where they fall;She sees in them an emblem meetTo mark the midnight-ball.
[Suggested by a Scene in the Play of the Hunchback.]
BY G. P. MORRIS.
"Love me!—No—he never loved me!"Else he'd sooner die than stainOne so fond as he has proved meWith the hollow world's disdain.False one, go—my doom is spoken,And the spell that bound me broken!Wed him!—Never.—He has lost me!—Tears!—Well, let them flow!—His bride?—No.—The struggle life may cost me!But he'll find that I have pride!Love is not an idle flower,Blooms and dies the self-same hour.Titles, lands, and broad dominion,With himself to me he gave;Stoop'd to earth his spirit's pinion,And became my willing slave!Knelt and pray'd until he won me—Looks he coldly now upon me?Ingrate!—Never sure was maidenWronged so foul as I. With griefMy true breast is overladen—Tears afford me no relief.—Every nerve is strained and aching,And my very heart is breaking!Love I him?—Thus scorned and slighted—Thrown, like worthless weed, apart—Hopes and feelings sear'd and blighted—Love him?—Yes, with all my heart!With a passion superhuman—Constancy, "thy name is woman."Love nor time, nor mood, can fashion—Love?—Idolatry's the wordTo speak the broadest, deepest passion,Ever woman's heart hath stirr'd!Vain to still the mind's desires,Which consume like hidden fires!Wreck'd and wretched, lost and lonely,Crush'd by grief's oppressive weight,With a prayer for Clifford only,I resign me to my fate.Chains that bind the soul I've provenStrong as they were iron-woven.Deep the wo that fast is sendingFrom my cheek its healthful bloom;Sad my thoughts, as willows bendingO'er the borders of the tomb.Without Clifford not a blessingIn the world is worth possessing.Wealth!—a straw within the balance,Opposed to love 'twill kick the beam:Kindred—friendship—beauty—talents?—All to love as nothing seem;Weigh love against all else together,As solid gold against a feather.Hope is flown—away disguises—Nought but death relief can give—For the love he little prizesCannot cease and Julia live!Soon my thread of life will sever—Clifford, fare thee well—for ever!
"Love me!—No—he never loved me!"Else he'd sooner die than stainOne so fond as he has proved meWith the hollow world's disdain.False one, go—my doom is spoken,And the spell that bound me broken!
Wed him!—Never.—He has lost me!—Tears!—Well, let them flow!—His bride?—No.—The struggle life may cost me!But he'll find that I have pride!Love is not an idle flower,Blooms and dies the self-same hour.
Titles, lands, and broad dominion,With himself to me he gave;Stoop'd to earth his spirit's pinion,And became my willing slave!Knelt and pray'd until he won me—Looks he coldly now upon me?
Ingrate!—Never sure was maidenWronged so foul as I. With griefMy true breast is overladen—Tears afford me no relief.—Every nerve is strained and aching,And my very heart is breaking!
Love I him?—Thus scorned and slighted—Thrown, like worthless weed, apart—Hopes and feelings sear'd and blighted—Love him?—Yes, with all my heart!With a passion superhuman—Constancy, "thy name is woman."
Love nor time, nor mood, can fashion—Love?—Idolatry's the wordTo speak the broadest, deepest passion,Ever woman's heart hath stirr'd!Vain to still the mind's desires,Which consume like hidden fires!
Wreck'd and wretched, lost and lonely,Crush'd by grief's oppressive weight,With a prayer for Clifford only,I resign me to my fate.Chains that bind the soul I've provenStrong as they were iron-woven.
Deep the wo that fast is sendingFrom my cheek its healthful bloom;Sad my thoughts, as willows bendingO'er the borders of the tomb.Without Clifford not a blessingIn the world is worth possessing.
Wealth!—a straw within the balance,Opposed to love 'twill kick the beam:Kindred—friendship—beauty—talents?—All to love as nothing seem;Weigh love against all else together,As solid gold against a feather.
Hope is flown—away disguises—Nought but death relief can give—For the love he little prizesCannot cease and Julia live!Soon my thread of life will sever—Clifford, fare thee well—for ever!
BY JOHN INMAN.
Loved, lost one, fare thee well—too harsh the doomThat called thee thus in opening life away;Tears fall for thee; and at thy early tombI come at each return of this blest day,When evening hovers near, with solemn gloom,The pious debt of sorrowing thought to pay,For thee, blest spirit, whose loved form aloneHere mouldering sleeps, beneath this simple stone.But memory claims thee still; and slumber bringsThy form before me as in life it came;Affection conquers death, and fondly clingsUnto the past, and thee, and thy loved name;And hours glide swiftly by on noiseless wings,While sad discourses of thy loss I frame,With her the friend of thy most tranquil years,Who mourns for thee with grief too deep for tears.Sunday Evening.
Loved, lost one, fare thee well—too harsh the doomThat called thee thus in opening life away;Tears fall for thee; and at thy early tombI come at each return of this blest day,When evening hovers near, with solemn gloom,The pious debt of sorrowing thought to pay,For thee, blest spirit, whose loved form aloneHere mouldering sleeps, beneath this simple stone.
But memory claims thee still; and slumber bringsThy form before me as in life it came;Affection conquers death, and fondly clingsUnto the past, and thee, and thy loved name;And hours glide swiftly by on noiseless wings,While sad discourses of thy loss I frame,With her the friend of thy most tranquil years,Who mourns for thee with grief too deep for tears.Sunday Evening.
BY THEODORE S. FAY.
A careless, simple bird, one dayFlutt'ring in Flora's bowers,Fell in a cruel trap, which layAll hid among the flowers,Forsooth, the pretty, harmless flowers.The spring was closed; poor, silly soul,He knew not what to do,Till, squeezing through a tiny hole,At length away he flew,Unhurt—at length away he flew.And now from every fond regretAnd idle anguish free,He, singing, says, "You need not setAnother trap for me,False girl! another trap for me."
A careless, simple bird, one dayFlutt'ring in Flora's bowers,Fell in a cruel trap, which layAll hid among the flowers,Forsooth, the pretty, harmless flowers.
The spring was closed; poor, silly soul,He knew not what to do,Till, squeezing through a tiny hole,At length away he flew,Unhurt—at length away he flew.
And now from every fond regretAnd idle anguish free,He, singing, says, "You need not setAnother trap for me,False girl! another trap for me."
BY C. F. HOFFMAN.
Blame not the Bowl—the fruitful Bowl!Whence wit, and mirth, and music spring,And amber drops elysian roll,To bathe young Love's delighted wing.What like the grape Osiris gaveMakes rigid age so lithe of limb?Illumines Memory's tearful wave,And teaches drowning Hope to swim?Did Ocean from his radiant armsTo earth another Venus give,He ne'er could match the mellow charmsThat in the breathing beaker live.Like burning thoughts which lovers hoardIn characters that mock the sight,Till some kind liquid, o'er them poured,Brings all their hidden warmth to light—Are feelings bright, which, in the cup,Though graven deep, appear but dim,Till filled with glowing Bacchus up,They sparkle on the foaming brim.Each drop upon the first you pourBrings some new tender thought to life,And as you fill it more and more,The last with fervid soul is rife.The island fount, that kept of oldIts fabled path beneath the sea,And fresh, as first from earth it rolled,From earth again rose joyously;Bore not beneath the bitter brine,Each flower upon its limpid tide,More faithfully than in the wine,Our hearts will toward each other glide.Then drain the cup, and let thy soulLearn, as the draught delicious flies,Like pearls in the Egyptian's bowl,Truth beaming at the bottom lies.
Blame not the Bowl—the fruitful Bowl!Whence wit, and mirth, and music spring,And amber drops elysian roll,To bathe young Love's delighted wing.What like the grape Osiris gaveMakes rigid age so lithe of limb?Illumines Memory's tearful wave,And teaches drowning Hope to swim?Did Ocean from his radiant armsTo earth another Venus give,He ne'er could match the mellow charmsThat in the breathing beaker live.
Like burning thoughts which lovers hoardIn characters that mock the sight,Till some kind liquid, o'er them poured,Brings all their hidden warmth to light—Are feelings bright, which, in the cup,Though graven deep, appear but dim,Till filled with glowing Bacchus up,They sparkle on the foaming brim.Each drop upon the first you pourBrings some new tender thought to life,And as you fill it more and more,The last with fervid soul is rife.
The island fount, that kept of oldIts fabled path beneath the sea,And fresh, as first from earth it rolled,From earth again rose joyously;Bore not beneath the bitter brine,Each flower upon its limpid tide,More faithfully than in the wine,Our hearts will toward each other glide.Then drain the cup, and let thy soulLearn, as the draught delicious flies,Like pearls in the Egyptian's bowl,Truth beaming at the bottom lies.
BY WILLIAM LEGGETT.
If yon bright stars, which gem the night,Be each a blissful dwelling sphere,Where kindred spirits re-uniteWhom death has torn asunder here,How sweet it were at once to die,And leave this blighted orb afar,Mixt soul and soul to cleave the sky,And soar away from star to star.But oh, how dark, how drear and lone,Would seem the brightest world of bliss,If wandering through each radiant oneWe failed to find the loved of this;If there no more the ties shall twineThat death's cold hand alone could sever;Ah! then these stars in mockery shine,More hateful as they shine for ever.It cannot be each hope, each fear,That lights the eye or clouds the brow,Proclaims there is a happier sphereThan this bleak world that holds us now.There is a voice which sorrow hears,When heaviest weighs life's galling chain;'Tis heaven that whispers—Dry thy tears,The pure in heart shall meet again.
If yon bright stars, which gem the night,Be each a blissful dwelling sphere,Where kindred spirits re-uniteWhom death has torn asunder here,How sweet it were at once to die,And leave this blighted orb afar,Mixt soul and soul to cleave the sky,And soar away from star to star.
But oh, how dark, how drear and lone,Would seem the brightest world of bliss,If wandering through each radiant oneWe failed to find the loved of this;If there no more the ties shall twineThat death's cold hand alone could sever;Ah! then these stars in mockery shine,More hateful as they shine for ever.
It cannot be each hope, each fear,That lights the eye or clouds the brow,Proclaims there is a happier sphereThan this bleak world that holds us now.There is a voice which sorrow hears,When heaviest weighs life's galling chain;'Tis heaven that whispers—Dry thy tears,The pure in heart shall meet again.
BY THEODORE S. FAY.
Columbia, was thy continent stretched wild,In later ages, the huge seas above?And art thou Nature's youngest, fairest child,Most favoured by thy gentle mother's love?Where now we stand, did ocean monsters rove,Tumbling uncouth, in those dim, vanish'd years,When, through the Red Sea, Pharaoh's thousands drove,When struggling Joseph dropped fraternal tears,When God came down from heaven, and mortal men were seers?Or, have thy forests waved, thy rivers run,Elysian solitudes, untrod by man,Silent and lonely, since, around the sun,Her ever-wheeling circle, earth began?Thy unseen flowers, did here the breezes fan?With wasted perfume ever on them flung?And o'er thy show'rs, neglected rainbows span,When Alexander fought, when Homer sung,And the old populous world with thundering battle rung?Yet what to me, or when, or how thy birth,No musty tomes are here to tell of thee;None know, if cast when nature first the earthShaped round, and clothed with grass, and flower, and tree,Or, whether since, by changes, silently,Of sand and shell, and wave, thy wonders grew;Or if, before man's little memory,Some shock stupendous rent the globe in two,And thee, a fragment, far in western oceans threw.I know but that I love thee. On my heart,Like a dear friend's, are stamped thy features now;Though there, the Roman, or the Grecian artHath lent, to deck thy plain and mountain brow,No broken temples, fain at length to bow,Moss-grown and crumbling with the weight of time.Not these, o'er thee, their mystic splendours throw;Themes eloquent for pencil or for rhyme,As many a soul can tell that pours its thoughts sublime.But thou art sternly artless, wildly free:We worship thee for beauties all thine own.Like damsel, young and sweet, and sure to beAdmired, but only for herself alone.With richer foliage ne'er was land o'ergrown.No mightier rivers run, nor mountains rise;Nor ever lakes with lovelier graces shone,Nor wealthier harvests waved in human eyes,Nor lay more liquid stars along more heavenly skies.I dream of thee, fairest of fairy streams.Sweet Hudson! Float we on thy summer breast.Who views thy enchanted windings ever deemsThy banks, of mortal shores, the loveliest!Hail to thy shelving slopes, with verdure dress'd,Bright break thy waves the varied beach upon;Soft rise thy hills, by amorous clouds caress'd;Clear flow thy waters, laughing in the sun—Would through such peaceful scenes my life might gently run!And lo! the Catskills print the distant sky;And o'er their airy tops the faint clouds driven,So softly blending, that the cheated eyeForgets, or which is earth or which is heaven—Sometimes, like thunder clouds, they shade the even,Till, as you nearer draw, each wooded heightPuts off the azure hues by distance given;And slowly break, upon the enamour'd sight,Ravine, crag, field and wood, in colours true and bright.Mount to the cloud-kissed summit. Far belowSpreads the vast Champaign like a shoreless sea.Mark yonder narrow streamlet feebly flow,Like idle brook that creeps ingloriously;Can that the lovely, lordly Hudson be,Stealing by town and mountain? Who beholds,At break of day, this scene, when, silently,Its map of field, wood, hamlet is unroll'd,While, in the east, the sun uprears his locks of gold,Till earth receive him never can forget.Even when returned amid the city's roar,The fairy vision haunts his memory yet,As in the sailor's fancy shines the shore.Imagination cons the moment o'er,When first discover'd, awe-struck and amazed.Scarce loftier, Jove—whom men and gods adore—On the extended earth beneath him gazed,Temple, and tower, and town, by human insect raised.Blow, scented gale—the snowy canvass swell,And flow, thou silver, eddying current on.Grieve we to bid each lovely point farewell,That, ere its graces half are seen, is gone.By woody bluff we steal, by leaning lawn,By palace, village, cot, a sweet surprise,At every turn, the vision breaks upon,Till to our wondering and uplifted eyesThe Highland rocks and hills in solemn grandeur rise,Nor clouds in heaven, nor billows in the deep,More graceful shapes did ever heave or roll,Nor came such pictures to a painter's sleep,Nor beamed such visions on a poet's soul!The pent-up flood, impatient of control,In ages past, here broke its granite bound;Then to the sea, in broad meanders, stole;While ponderous ruins strewed the broken ground,And these gigantic hills for ever closed around.And ever-wakeful echo here doth dwell,The nymph of sportive mockery, that stillHides behind every rock, in every dell,And softly glides, unseen, from hill to hill.No sound doth rise, but mimic it she will,The sturgeon's splash repeating from the shore,Aping the boy's voice with a voice as shrill,The bird's low warble, and the thunder's roar,Always she watches there, each murmur telling o'er.Awake my lyre, with other themes inspired.Where yon bold point repels the crystal tide,The Briton youth, lamented and admired,His country's hope, her ornament and pride,A traitor's death, ingloriously died,On freedom's altar offered; in the sightOf God, by men who will their act abide,On the great day, and hold their deed aright,To stop the breath would quench young Freedom's holy light.But see! the broadening river deeper flows,Its tribute floods intent to reach the sea,While, from the west, the fading sunlight throwsIts softening hues on stream, and field and tree;All silent nature bathing, wondrously,In charms that soothe the heart with sweet desires,And thoughts of friends we ne'er again may see,Till lo! ahead, Manhatta's bristling spires,Above her thousand roofs red with day's dying fires.May greet the wanderer of Columbia's shore,Proud Venice of the west! no lovelier scene.Of thy vast throngs, now faintly comes the roar,Though late like beating-ocean surf I ween—And every where thy various barks are seen,Cleaving the limpid floods that round thee flow,Encircled by thy banks of sunny green—The panting steamer plying to and fro,Or the tall sea-bound ship abroad on wings of snow.And radiantly upon the glittering mass,The God of day his parting glances sends,As some warm soul, from earth about to pass,Back on its fading scenes and mourning friends,Deep words of love and looks of rapture bends,More bright and bright, as near their end they be.On, on, great orb! to earth's remotest ends,Each land irradiate, and every sea—But oh, my native land, not one, not one like thee!
Columbia, was thy continent stretched wild,In later ages, the huge seas above?And art thou Nature's youngest, fairest child,Most favoured by thy gentle mother's love?Where now we stand, did ocean monsters rove,Tumbling uncouth, in those dim, vanish'd years,When, through the Red Sea, Pharaoh's thousands drove,When struggling Joseph dropped fraternal tears,When God came down from heaven, and mortal men were seers?
Or, have thy forests waved, thy rivers run,Elysian solitudes, untrod by man,Silent and lonely, since, around the sun,Her ever-wheeling circle, earth began?Thy unseen flowers, did here the breezes fan?With wasted perfume ever on them flung?And o'er thy show'rs, neglected rainbows span,When Alexander fought, when Homer sung,And the old populous world with thundering battle rung?
Yet what to me, or when, or how thy birth,No musty tomes are here to tell of thee;None know, if cast when nature first the earthShaped round, and clothed with grass, and flower, and tree,Or, whether since, by changes, silently,Of sand and shell, and wave, thy wonders grew;Or if, before man's little memory,Some shock stupendous rent the globe in two,And thee, a fragment, far in western oceans threw.
I know but that I love thee. On my heart,Like a dear friend's, are stamped thy features now;Though there, the Roman, or the Grecian artHath lent, to deck thy plain and mountain brow,No broken temples, fain at length to bow,Moss-grown and crumbling with the weight of time.Not these, o'er thee, their mystic splendours throw;Themes eloquent for pencil or for rhyme,As many a soul can tell that pours its thoughts sublime.
But thou art sternly artless, wildly free:We worship thee for beauties all thine own.Like damsel, young and sweet, and sure to beAdmired, but only for herself alone.With richer foliage ne'er was land o'ergrown.No mightier rivers run, nor mountains rise;Nor ever lakes with lovelier graces shone,Nor wealthier harvests waved in human eyes,Nor lay more liquid stars along more heavenly skies.
I dream of thee, fairest of fairy streams.Sweet Hudson! Float we on thy summer breast.Who views thy enchanted windings ever deemsThy banks, of mortal shores, the loveliest!Hail to thy shelving slopes, with verdure dress'd,Bright break thy waves the varied beach upon;Soft rise thy hills, by amorous clouds caress'd;Clear flow thy waters, laughing in the sun—Would through such peaceful scenes my life might gently run!
And lo! the Catskills print the distant sky;And o'er their airy tops the faint clouds driven,So softly blending, that the cheated eyeForgets, or which is earth or which is heaven—Sometimes, like thunder clouds, they shade the even,Till, as you nearer draw, each wooded heightPuts off the azure hues by distance given;And slowly break, upon the enamour'd sight,Ravine, crag, field and wood, in colours true and bright.
Mount to the cloud-kissed summit. Far belowSpreads the vast Champaign like a shoreless sea.Mark yonder narrow streamlet feebly flow,Like idle brook that creeps ingloriously;Can that the lovely, lordly Hudson be,Stealing by town and mountain? Who beholds,At break of day, this scene, when, silently,Its map of field, wood, hamlet is unroll'd,While, in the east, the sun uprears his locks of gold,
Till earth receive him never can forget.Even when returned amid the city's roar,The fairy vision haunts his memory yet,As in the sailor's fancy shines the shore.Imagination cons the moment o'er,When first discover'd, awe-struck and amazed.Scarce loftier, Jove—whom men and gods adore—On the extended earth beneath him gazed,Temple, and tower, and town, by human insect raised.
Blow, scented gale—the snowy canvass swell,And flow, thou silver, eddying current on.Grieve we to bid each lovely point farewell,That, ere its graces half are seen, is gone.By woody bluff we steal, by leaning lawn,By palace, village, cot, a sweet surprise,At every turn, the vision breaks upon,Till to our wondering and uplifted eyesThe Highland rocks and hills in solemn grandeur rise,
Nor clouds in heaven, nor billows in the deep,More graceful shapes did ever heave or roll,Nor came such pictures to a painter's sleep,Nor beamed such visions on a poet's soul!The pent-up flood, impatient of control,In ages past, here broke its granite bound;Then to the sea, in broad meanders, stole;While ponderous ruins strewed the broken ground,And these gigantic hills for ever closed around.
And ever-wakeful echo here doth dwell,The nymph of sportive mockery, that stillHides behind every rock, in every dell,And softly glides, unseen, from hill to hill.No sound doth rise, but mimic it she will,The sturgeon's splash repeating from the shore,Aping the boy's voice with a voice as shrill,The bird's low warble, and the thunder's roar,Always she watches there, each murmur telling o'er.
Awake my lyre, with other themes inspired.Where yon bold point repels the crystal tide,The Briton youth, lamented and admired,His country's hope, her ornament and pride,A traitor's death, ingloriously died,On freedom's altar offered; in the sightOf God, by men who will their act abide,On the great day, and hold their deed aright,To stop the breath would quench young Freedom's holy light.
But see! the broadening river deeper flows,Its tribute floods intent to reach the sea,While, from the west, the fading sunlight throwsIts softening hues on stream, and field and tree;All silent nature bathing, wondrously,In charms that soothe the heart with sweet desires,And thoughts of friends we ne'er again may see,Till lo! ahead, Manhatta's bristling spires,Above her thousand roofs red with day's dying fires.
May greet the wanderer of Columbia's shore,Proud Venice of the west! no lovelier scene.Of thy vast throngs, now faintly comes the roar,Though late like beating-ocean surf I ween—And every where thy various barks are seen,Cleaving the limpid floods that round thee flow,Encircled by thy banks of sunny green—The panting steamer plying to and fro,Or the tall sea-bound ship abroad on wings of snow.
And radiantly upon the glittering mass,The God of day his parting glances sends,As some warm soul, from earth about to pass,Back on its fading scenes and mourning friends,Deep words of love and looks of rapture bends,More bright and bright, as near their end they be.On, on, great orb! to earth's remotest ends,Each land irradiate, and every sea—But oh, my native land, not one, not one like thee!
BY MISS ELIZABETH BOGART.
He came too late!—Neglect had triedHer constancy too long;Her love had yielded to her pride,And the deep sense of wrong.She scorned the offering of a heartWhich, lingered on its way,Till it could no delight impart,Nor spread one cheering ray.He came too late!—At once he feltThat all his power was o'er!Indifference in her calm smile dwelt,She thought of him no more.Anger and grief had passed away,Her heart and thoughts were free;She met him, and her words were gay,No spell had memory.He came too late!—The subtle chordsOf love were all unbound,Not by offence of spoken words,But by the slights that wound.She knew that life held nothing nowThat could the past repay,Yet she disdained his tardy vow,And coldly turned away.He came too late!—Her countless dreamsOf hope had long since flown;No charms dwelt in his chosen themes,Nor in his whispered tone.And when, with word and smile, he triedAffection still to prove,She nerved her heart with woman's pride,And spurned his fickle love.
He came too late!—Neglect had triedHer constancy too long;Her love had yielded to her pride,And the deep sense of wrong.She scorned the offering of a heartWhich, lingered on its way,Till it could no delight impart,Nor spread one cheering ray.
He came too late!—At once he feltThat all his power was o'er!Indifference in her calm smile dwelt,She thought of him no more.Anger and grief had passed away,Her heart and thoughts were free;She met him, and her words were gay,No spell had memory.
He came too late!—The subtle chordsOf love were all unbound,Not by offence of spoken words,But by the slights that wound.She knew that life held nothing nowThat could the past repay,Yet she disdained his tardy vow,And coldly turned away.
He came too late!—Her countless dreamsOf hope had long since flown;No charms dwelt in his chosen themes,Nor in his whispered tone.And when, with word and smile, he triedAffection still to prove,She nerved her heart with woman's pride,And spurned his fickle love.
WRITTEN IN A BOOK OF FORTUNES, 1787.
BY THE LATE GEN. MORTON.
As through the garden's sweet domainThe bee from leaf to leaf will rove,Will cull its sweets with anxious pain,Then bear its treasures to his love;So from those leaves which bring to viewThings hid by fate in Time's dark reign,With care I'd cull, dear girl, for you,The richest blessings they contain;But fortune here our power restrains,Nor leaves her blessings in our hand:Towish, alone tousremains,TheGiftis still athercommand.Take, then, sweet maid, this wish sincere,Which in a friendly heart doth glow—A heart which will thy worth revereTill life's rich streams shall cease to flow:On the fair morning of thy lifeMay love beam forth his brightest ray,—May friendship's joys, unvexed by strife,Glad the meridian of thy day;And when life's solemn eve shall come,And time to you shall ever cease,May then religion cheer the gloom,And light thy path to endless peace.
As through the garden's sweet domainThe bee from leaf to leaf will rove,Will cull its sweets with anxious pain,Then bear its treasures to his love;So from those leaves which bring to viewThings hid by fate in Time's dark reign,With care I'd cull, dear girl, for you,The richest blessings they contain;But fortune here our power restrains,Nor leaves her blessings in our hand:Towish, alone tousremains,TheGiftis still athercommand.
Take, then, sweet maid, this wish sincere,Which in a friendly heart doth glow—A heart which will thy worth revereTill life's rich streams shall cease to flow:On the fair morning of thy lifeMay love beam forth his brightest ray,—May friendship's joys, unvexed by strife,Glad the meridian of thy day;And when life's solemn eve shall come,And time to you shall ever cease,May then religion cheer the gloom,And light thy path to endless peace.
BY C. F. HOFFMAN.
An ear that caught my slightest toneIn kindness or in anger spoken;An eye that ever watch'd my ownIn vigils death alone has broken;Its changeless, ceaseless, and unboughtAffection to the last revealing;Beaming almost with human thought,And more than human feeling!Can such in endless sleep be chilled,And mortal pride disdain to sorrow,Because the pulse that here was stilledMay wake to no immortal morrow?Can faith, devotedness, and love,That seem to humbler creatures givenTo tell us what we owe above!The types of what is due to Heaven?Can these be with the things thatwere,Things cherished—but no more returning;And leave behind no trace of care,No shade that speaks a moment's mourning?Alas! my friend, of all of worth,That years have stol'n or years yet leave me,I've never known so much on earth,But that the loss of thine must grieve me.
An ear that caught my slightest toneIn kindness or in anger spoken;An eye that ever watch'd my ownIn vigils death alone has broken;Its changeless, ceaseless, and unboughtAffection to the last revealing;Beaming almost with human thought,And more than human feeling!
Can such in endless sleep be chilled,And mortal pride disdain to sorrow,Because the pulse that here was stilledMay wake to no immortal morrow?Can faith, devotedness, and love,That seem to humbler creatures givenTo tell us what we owe above!The types of what is due to Heaven?
Can these be with the things thatwere,Things cherished—but no more returning;And leave behind no trace of care,No shade that speaks a moment's mourning?Alas! my friend, of all of worth,That years have stol'n or years yet leave me,I've never known so much on earth,But that the loss of thine must grieve me.
BY THEODORE S. FAY.
Over forest and meadow the night breeze is stealing,The blush of the sunset is glowing no more—And the stream which we love, harmless fires revealing,With ripples of silver is kissing the shore.I have watched from the beach which your presence enchanted,In the star-lighted heaven each beautiful gem,And I sighed as I thought, ere the break of the morning,From the gaze of my eyes you must vanish like them.Then stay where the night breeze o'er flowers is stealing,And raise your young voices in music once more;Let them blend with the stream, its soft murmurs revealingIn the ripples of silver which roll to the shore.But when summer has fled, and yon flowers have faded,And the fields and the forests are withered and sere—When the friends now together, by distance are parted,Leaving nothing but winter and loneliness here;Will you think of the hour, when in friendship united,I lingered at evening to bid you adieu;When I paused by the stream, with the stars so delighted,And wished I might linger for ever with you?Oh, forget not the time when that night breeze was stealing,Though desolate oceans between us may roar,The beach—and the stars—and the waters revealingThoughts bright as the ripples which break on the shore.
Over forest and meadow the night breeze is stealing,The blush of the sunset is glowing no more—And the stream which we love, harmless fires revealing,With ripples of silver is kissing the shore.I have watched from the beach which your presence enchanted,In the star-lighted heaven each beautiful gem,And I sighed as I thought, ere the break of the morning,From the gaze of my eyes you must vanish like them.Then stay where the night breeze o'er flowers is stealing,And raise your young voices in music once more;Let them blend with the stream, its soft murmurs revealingIn the ripples of silver which roll to the shore.
But when summer has fled, and yon flowers have faded,And the fields and the forests are withered and sere—When the friends now together, by distance are parted,Leaving nothing but winter and loneliness here;Will you think of the hour, when in friendship united,I lingered at evening to bid you adieu;When I paused by the stream, with the stars so delighted,And wished I might linger for ever with you?Oh, forget not the time when that night breeze was stealing,Though desolate oceans between us may roar,The beach—and the stars—and the waters revealingThoughts bright as the ripples which break on the shore.
BY JOHN INMAN.
L'amour ne suffit pas au bonheur; les richesses y font aussibeaucoup de cas, et parfois sans les richesses, l'amour neproduit que la misère. C'est grand dommage, mais c'est vrai.—Madame de Beaumarchais.Alas! alas, that poverty's cold handShould come to wither young affection's flowers—Marring the fairy pictures hope has plannedOf love and joy in future happy hours—Alas, that all the blessings fancy showersO'er the young heart, should turn to grief and tears,Poisoning the cup of life through all our after-years!A moment's pleasure and an age of pain—One hour of sunshine, and the rest all gloom—And this, oh Love, is what from thee we gain—Of all who bow before thee, this the doom—And in thy footsteps, like the dread Zamoom,Pale sorrow comes, a longer-dwelling guest,To curse the wasted heart that once by thee was blest.
L'amour ne suffit pas au bonheur; les richesses y font aussibeaucoup de cas, et parfois sans les richesses, l'amour neproduit que la misère. C'est grand dommage, mais c'est vrai.—Madame de Beaumarchais.
Alas! alas, that poverty's cold handShould come to wither young affection's flowers—Marring the fairy pictures hope has plannedOf love and joy in future happy hours—Alas, that all the blessings fancy showersO'er the young heart, should turn to grief and tears,Poisoning the cup of life through all our after-years!
A moment's pleasure and an age of pain—One hour of sunshine, and the rest all gloom—And this, oh Love, is what from thee we gain—Of all who bow before thee, this the doom—And in thy footsteps, like the dread Zamoom,Pale sorrow comes, a longer-dwelling guest,To curse the wasted heart that once by thee was blest.
BY J. B. VANSCHAICK.
The day rose clear on Gibeon. Her high towersFlash'd the red sun-beams gloriously back,And the wind-driven banners, and the steelOf her ten thousand spears caught dazzlinglyThe sun, and on the fortresses of rockPlay'd a soft glow, that as a mockery seem'dTo the stern men who girded by its light.Beth-Horon in the distance slept, and breathWas pleasant in the vale of Ajalon,Where armed heels trod carelessly the sweetWild spices, and the trees of gum were shookBy the rude armour on their branches hung.Suddenly in the camp without the wallsRose a deep murmur, and the men of warGather'd around their kings, and "Joshua!From Gilgal, Joshua!" was whisper'd low,As with a secret fear, and then, at once,With the abruptness of a dream, he stoodUpon the rock before them. Calmly thenRaised he his helm, and with his temples bareAnd hands uplifted to the sky, he pray'd;—"God of this people, hear! and let the sunStand upon Gibeon, still; and let the moonRest in the vale of Ajalon!" He ceased—And lo! the moon sits motionless, and earthStands on her axis indolent. The sunPours the unmoving column of his raysIn undiminish'd heat; the hours stand still;The shade hath stopp'd upon the dial's face;The clouds and vapours that at night are wontTo gather and enshroud the lower earth,Are struggling with strange rays, breaking them up,Scattering the misty phalanx like a wand,Glancing o'er mountain tops, and shining downIn broken masses on the astonish'd plains.The fever'd cattle group in wondering herds;The weary birds go to their leafy nests,But find no darkness there, and wander forthOn feeble, fluttering wing, to find a rest;The parch'd, baked earth, undamp'd by usual dews,Has gaped and crack'd, and heat, dry, mid-day heat,Comes like a drunkard's breath upon the heart.On with thy armies, Joshua! The LordGod of Sabaoth is the avenger now!His voice is in the thunder, and his wrathPoureth the beams of the retarded sun,With the keen strength of arrows, on their sight.The unwearied sun rides in the zenith sky;Nature, obedient to her Maker's voice,Stops in full course all her mysterious wheels.On! till avenging swords have drunk the bloodOf all Jehovah's enemies, and tillThy banners in returning triumph wave;Then yonder orb shall set 'mid golden clouds,And, while a dewy rain falls soft on earth,Show in the heavens the glorious bow of God,Shining, the rainbow banner of the skies.
The day rose clear on Gibeon. Her high towersFlash'd the red sun-beams gloriously back,And the wind-driven banners, and the steelOf her ten thousand spears caught dazzlinglyThe sun, and on the fortresses of rockPlay'd a soft glow, that as a mockery seem'dTo the stern men who girded by its light.Beth-Horon in the distance slept, and breathWas pleasant in the vale of Ajalon,Where armed heels trod carelessly the sweetWild spices, and the trees of gum were shookBy the rude armour on their branches hung.Suddenly in the camp without the wallsRose a deep murmur, and the men of warGather'd around their kings, and "Joshua!From Gilgal, Joshua!" was whisper'd low,As with a secret fear, and then, at once,With the abruptness of a dream, he stoodUpon the rock before them. Calmly thenRaised he his helm, and with his temples bareAnd hands uplifted to the sky, he pray'd;—"God of this people, hear! and let the sunStand upon Gibeon, still; and let the moonRest in the vale of Ajalon!" He ceased—And lo! the moon sits motionless, and earthStands on her axis indolent. The sunPours the unmoving column of his raysIn undiminish'd heat; the hours stand still;The shade hath stopp'd upon the dial's face;The clouds and vapours that at night are wontTo gather and enshroud the lower earth,Are struggling with strange rays, breaking them up,Scattering the misty phalanx like a wand,Glancing o'er mountain tops, and shining downIn broken masses on the astonish'd plains.The fever'd cattle group in wondering herds;The weary birds go to their leafy nests,But find no darkness there, and wander forthOn feeble, fluttering wing, to find a rest;The parch'd, baked earth, undamp'd by usual dews,Has gaped and crack'd, and heat, dry, mid-day heat,Comes like a drunkard's breath upon the heart.On with thy armies, Joshua! The LordGod of Sabaoth is the avenger now!His voice is in the thunder, and his wrathPoureth the beams of the retarded sun,With the keen strength of arrows, on their sight.The unwearied sun rides in the zenith sky;Nature, obedient to her Maker's voice,Stops in full course all her mysterious wheels.On! till avenging swords have drunk the bloodOf all Jehovah's enemies, and tillThy banners in returning triumph wave;Then yonder orb shall set 'mid golden clouds,And, while a dewy rain falls soft on earth,Show in the heavens the glorious bow of God,Shining, the rainbow banner of the skies.
BY WILLIAM LEGGETT.
I trust the frown thy features wearEre long into a smile will turn;I would not that a face so fairAs thine, beloved, should look so stern.The chain of ice that winter twines,Holds not for aye the sparkling rill,It melts away when summer shines,And leaves the waters sparkling still.Thus let thy cheek resume the smileThat shed such sunny light before;And though I left thee for a while,I'll swear to leave thee, love, no more.As he who, doomed o'er waves to roam,Or wander on a foreign strand,Will sigh whene'er he thinks of home,And better love his native land;So I, though lured a time away,Like bees by varied sweets, to rove,Return, like bees, by close of day,And leave them all for thee, my love.Then let thy cheek resume the smileThat shed such sunny light before,And though I left thee for a while,I'll swear to leave thee, love, no more.
I trust the frown thy features wearEre long into a smile will turn;I would not that a face so fairAs thine, beloved, should look so stern.The chain of ice that winter twines,Holds not for aye the sparkling rill,It melts away when summer shines,And leaves the waters sparkling still.Thus let thy cheek resume the smileThat shed such sunny light before;And though I left thee for a while,I'll swear to leave thee, love, no more.
As he who, doomed o'er waves to roam,Or wander on a foreign strand,Will sigh whene'er he thinks of home,And better love his native land;So I, though lured a time away,Like bees by varied sweets, to rove,Return, like bees, by close of day,And leave them all for thee, my love.Then let thy cheek resume the smileThat shed such sunny light before,And though I left thee for a while,I'll swear to leave thee, love, no more.
[Suggested by the attendance on Public Worship of the Cadets.—June, 1833.]
BY GEORGE D. STRONG.