Here’s a legend of love, said a laughing Grace,

A fragment from Poetry’s sire:

In Fancy’s port-folio we’ll give it a place,

And sing it to Euterpe’s lyre.

The King of the Fairies once siezed with a mania,

A sonnet or two to compose:

Sent to borrow the album of royal Titania—

The book was a simple white rose.

After vainly essaying his thoughts to transcribe,

The leaves he was ready to tear;

When Cupid approaching, he offered a bribe,

For some lines to the elfin fair.

The mischievous godling, with aspect demure,

From his quiver a dove quill drew;

Maliciously seeking to sully the pure,

And with sophistries darken its hue.

But a Bee that had lurked in its snowy recess,

Took his lips for “twin cherries just parted,”

Which the pirate of nectar preferring to press,

Towards the beautiful traitor soon darted.

Love wept on beholding the crimson dew gush

From the wound into purity’s cell;

And his tears thus tempering the vestal’s blush,

Formed the Spring-Rose, the Nightingale’s belle.

But the urchin, alas! soon extracting the sting,

Then concealed it beneath the sweet flower;

Thus peril in ambush to pleasure will cling,

As the thorn to the Rose from that hour.

Who that has struck young Fancy’s silver wires,

Looks not with classic rapture back to Greece?

Where from a God was caught her fervid fires,

Tho’ sorrow now has made her song to cease!

Who doth not know that Freedom loves to twine

Her attic laurels still around her brow?

To fly with weeping memory to that shrine,

Where epic genius breathed his earliest vow!

Ages of wrong have left thee wrecked of fame,

Dismantled of the glories of thy youth;

Yet could not power quench the lambent flame,

Electric quiverings from the torch of truth.

There is a music in thy mountain caves,

Echoes of glory still vibrating there;

A murmuring thunder in the Ægean waves,

That startles memory—but soothes despair.

Oh! brave in arms, and beautiful in art,

The Persian trophy and the Parian bust,

Still link thy lovely Isles to Freedom’s heart,

And charm her spirit to thy holy dust.

A living Laocoon thou writhest still,

Within the Turkish serpent’s mighty grasp,

But noble hearts shall yet their veins distil,

The reptile’s rigid coilings to unclasp.

A little flutterer of lineage proud,

Kindred to Psyche, as the poets vowed,

Allured by melody, and light and grace,

Suspended for a while its airy chase,

Forsook the pageant of a tulip’s court,

And lay entranced on a Piano Forte.

The minstrel’s cheek mistaking for a rose,

The strains for Philomela’s plaintive woes.

Unheeded long the amber-winged remained,

Fancying its perch in Paradise regained.

When as the flexile fingers fleetly strayed

To Harmony’s abyss it was betrayed;

The warbler ceased—and o’er the victim wept,

As in its ivory sepulchre it slept.

Martyr of melody! thou dost translate,

The mystic type and tenor of my fate.

Like thee for sweet enchantments I resigned

The amaranthine culture of the mind,

Nor dreamed such soft delights might be alloyed,

And truant rapture leave a treacherous void.

But life exhales, yet memory ne’er departs

From Love’s first tones the music of fond hearts.

When bold-eyed Fancy led her Thespian car,

Against the Passions in mimetic war,

With song and satire for her spear and shield;

She sought in Attica her earliest field.

Touching the soul with artificial woe,

She caused unselfish tears from man to flow.

By simple strokes the giant passions fell,

And manly bosoms felt a moral swell.

A polished world from Greece the impulse caught,

Majestic truth her magic mirror brought

Reflecting vice, before imperial Rome.

Europe beheld it next—then Freedom’s home!

A thousand temples honored either muse,

Genius her incense amply did effuse.

Then Shakspeare, Ariel’s creator came,

To snatch the never-dying wreath of Fame.

His bold ambition sought Prospero’s cave,

Brought Denmark’s monarch from his troubled grave.

Pervious to him alone that mystic sphere,

Where proud Macbeth was sentenced to despair.

Who best communed with his superior mind?

Transfused his spirit and his sense refined?

Garrick! on thee from his Elysian height,

He first shed rays of histrionic light.

Again his heroes in the Protean form,

Revealed their love, or raised the martial storm.

Thou mighty master of a generous art,

A purifying power didst impart,

E’en to that spring of knowledge most sublime,

For ever sparkling by the rock of Time.

But triumph thou, Columbia! thy free shore,

Enshrines the idol of dramatic lore.

Breaking in grandeure on the astonished age,

Lo! Cooper, sun of Science, lights our stage!

His voice brings Pity from her crystal cave,

To gem the eye of beauty and the brave.

Terror at his command starts from his den,

To strike the hearts or blanch the cheeks of men.

Has proud Philosophy a higher aim,

Than tribute from our sympathies to claim?

No! while the cynic’s thunder rolls away,

Unhurt young Folly still pursues her play;

But when the loveliest of the Olympian Nine,

These grand effects with pleasure can combine,

Corruption shudders at another’s sin,

Blushing to find such “perilous stuff” within.

Offspring of Liberty! another shrine,

Invites ye to adore that power divine

Whose gentle discipline to virtue leads,

Before whose beamy aspect vice recedes;

Whose chastened wit, and harmony sublime,

Convert to gold the metric sands of Time.

Saw ye the Barque, that lately passed in beautiful array?

Bounding along the liquid fields so buoyant, free and gay?

The flashing waters proudly swell to bear it to its mart,

And every brightening influence fell upon that gem of
Art;

But frowning Heaven banished soon the elemental smile,

And desolating spirits rose, its lustre to defile.

The livid ministers of wrath rush from their cloudy
caves—

Their fiery arrows cleave the skies, and pierce the troubled
waves—

The lambent lightning circling flies around the shivering
mast,

As if a golden wreath upon the sacrifice were cast;

Uncoiled, the crisping cordage lies clust’ring like snaky
hair

About the wild and withered brow of envious despair!

Sublime that meteor of the main, its parting glories
bright

As when the regal Day declines upon his throne of light.

But Pity’s interposing arm, amid the scene appears,

And o’er the human treasures there, her shield triumphant
rears:

Unscathed each gallant soul escapes from that tempestuous
fire—

Why mingles then the plaint of woe, when grateful prayers
aspire?

Alas! yon surgy sepulchre enshrines oneOpen note a01-rota The Lady here alluded to is Miss Boag. gentle form,

Too sensitive for earthly strife—too fragile for the storm.

From her the tints of health had fled. Decay was in
their track,

The wanderer only sought to woo the rosy spirit back;

But deeper grew the vital blight—the sainted victim
fell—

The balm of Faith upon her lips—a blessing her farewell!

Oh! who shall sing the mighty grief fraternal love oppressed,

When the ark of his redemption lost her trackless place
of rest!

For ever be the harp untouched, rebellious grief inspires,

Celestial hope alone may breathe upon its trembling
wires!

The Genius of Music her Ariel cited,

And by a brief note to a Concert invited

The various instruments stringed and air-born,

From the Harp of the Gracces to Dian’s shrill horn.

Unlike modish gentry they all went in time:

And perhaps might have joined in a prelusive chime,

But the chords of precedence too rigidly straining,

Soft unison fled of their harshness complaining.

The Trumpet inflated by being Fame’s agent,

Professed to be primo in Harmony’s pageant,

But the proud Organ’s pedal a damper upraised

To high sounding titles so pompously blazed.

If Antiquity’s scale the loud braggart could settle,

Old Tubal a man of considerable metal,

Priority’s right on herself had bestowed,

Which made him a minor in Minstrelsy’s code.

The classical Lyre appealed to Apollo,

If all their pretensions might not be deemed hollow

Compared with her powers whose affettuoso,

Eurydice won from the shades doloroso.

Violin with her bow in collision next came

And declared not a peg would she lower her claim:

She even would challenge seniority’s text,

For A.G.E.D.Open note a02-rota Names of the Violin Strings. on her form was imprest.

Next Piano advanced in a half mourning suit,

Pre-eminent rank with the last to dispute.

Ah! non troppo presto—fall back in your place,

For every one knows your grandfather was Bass;

And your dwarf cousin-german the petty Rebeck

Corelli himself could not cure of a squeak.

A fiddle-stick too for your ancien regime

My forte is to float upon Fashion’s gay stream;

And where is the aspirant pray to bon-ton,

Who covets me not for the brilliant Salon?

A sting at some distance was now heard to jar,

And with Spanish hauteur interposed the Guitar,

Strike not an additional Key of assurance,

Your pitch is already beyond all endurance.

Upright in appearance you will not deny

With the moderns a rival in me you descry;

And though more imperfect in structure and sound,

Not less fascinating am frequently found.

Sweet Ariel indignant at discords like these,

Would have cast them from Cliffs, or o’erwhelmed
with high C’s.

But a pause then ensuing the Genius declared,

They all so much out of their tenor appeared,

With their own variations so deeply engaged,

By her best overtures they could not be assuaged.

She therefore dismissed with a shake of the hand,

And an elegant Coda, the querulous band.

The wanderers paused beside a glassy brook,

Whose water-lilies whispering breezes shook.

The amber light lay quivering on the rill,

Fain by lorn innocence to linger still.

The summer-melodists in that sylvan fane

Instinctively prolonged their vesper strain.

But darkness soon impatient to delay,

A misty mantle cast o’er stream and spray.

With shadowy strokes those silvery lines effacing

That kept the sister leaflets from embracing.

Making the dusky foliage indistinct

As things by legendary fancy linked.

Amid the horrors of that solitude,

The one of the sternest mould was first subdued.

Care never yet had challenged him to strife,

But now the canker touched the bud of life.

In him that dawning prowess was displayed,

That meets the open peril undismayed.

While meek endurance, woman’s milder grace,

Left on her polished brow its pristine trace.

Beautiful pilgrims! in that weeping boy

Was seen the stately tree that storms destroy.

And in her softer image might be given

The flexile reed that ne’er is tempest-riven.

Droop not sweet brother—rather let us on

Where the wild bees and warbling birds are gone.

Home and to rest—our bleeding feet betray

The thorny terrors of our treacherous way.

But let us pray for guidance to our God!

Our mother taught that they who kiss the rod,

Will never falter though beset with fears;

Then lift thy head and let me dry those tears.

Oh! cease my sister—would that I had died

Ere I decoyed thee from that mother’s side.

The little ones now clustering round her knee

Demand why we partake not of their glee.

How must her anguish their young hearts appal,

When silence mocks her oft repeated call.

Why do you urge that pathway to explore,

Which I unshrinking trod till Hope was o’er?

Here will our pale and perished forms be found

For in that brooklet you behold her bound.

Thus Scheffer’s pencil left the fragile pair

Beyond—is fearful Fancy’s mystic sphere.

A smart Venetian Mirror of mercurial disposition

Went to Erin at midsummer on a curious expedition.

He sought a Cara Sposa, and he thought the most congenial,

Was a celebrated echo to unite in bonds hymeneal.

Said he to the reverberator—Here I fix my choice,

Thou needest but a visage dear, and I lack but a voice.

To look and listen all the day shall be our mutual cares,

While I reflect sweet images, thou shalt repeat soft airs.

If thou’rt at all ambitious love, thy suitor is a pier,

Of pedigree as noble as yon lustrous chandelier.

I ask no dower, for I bring splendid patrimony,

Then say at once if thou’lt be mine in holy matrimony.

Oh! who would dream of sordid aims in nature’s simple
child?

But in this mercenary age, the purest are defiled.

The smart Venetian Mirror found his fondest hopes defeated,

For mony was the only word the Echo had repeated.

O! bring the Rose that bent its blushing head,

When Eden’s bowers felt the Serpent’s tread,

The Lily seek whose vegetable Snow,

Caught the first chrystal-drop of human woe.

Twine the frail emblems round the harp of Time,

In quivering cadence sing the birth of Crime.

O’er two fair shrines imagination bends—

On one alone the light of Heaven descends;

From one alone, the soul’s pure incense springs—

Its glowing wafture sped by Angel wings.

Not far remote from Eve’s celestial heir,

Cain’s unblest Urn sends up its lurid glare.

Pale, and portentous in his jealous pride,

The ruined spirit marks the ruddy tide

Yet streaming from the sacrificial steel,

While fitful murmurs frenzied thoughts reveal.

In vain would timid Love with tender art,

Lure truant joy back to his tortured heart.

The arms of Beauty round his bosom twined,

Seem Snow-wreaths drifting on the stormy wind,

His sportive innocents in mute surprise,

Look up to learn the secret from his eyes;

But startled by their vengeful lightnings, fly

Like Larks recoiling from a lowering sky.

Alas! each infant Passion wildly wakes,

And scowling Envy, Nature’s barrier breaks:

While sanguine Murder dips his sable wing,

With horrid triumph in Pollution’s spring.

Friend! wilt thou not forbear a Brother’s blood?

Nor yield at Mercy’s call thy wrathful mood?

Oh! think of her to melting anguish stirred,

When first the Falcon crushed the fearful bird.

If such the bitter gushings of Remorse,

How will that dread libation swell its course?

In vain! the primal Martyrdom is past,

A lingering death-cry fills the sullen blast;

The Spoiler rushes from the sullied sod,

To hide his gory garments from his God!

Delusive thought! the Searcher’s voice sublime,

Thunders the retribution of thy crime.

From every mortal bond and blessing riven—

Exiled from Hope, thy heritage and Heaven!

While on thy shrivelled brow a mighty hand,

Eternal wanderer, leaves Corruption’s brand.

A wreath and a robe of imperial dye,

For the one that kills Time, or compels him to fly

On gossamer wing with the lightning’s speed!

Who first comes forth for the promised meed?

By the Nightingale perched on her rosy finger,

By the Ariel echoes that round her linger,

’Tis Melody sounding her sweetest shell,

And her softest lute for the wanderer’s knell.

But the listener’s laugh on the zephyr is borne,

And the robe and the wreath yet remain unworn.

A grape-stone is levelled against his glass,

And Saturn awhile seems more swiftly to pass.

But woe to the Bacchanal whose rash hand

Thus wildly has shaken his golden sand;

It recoils in dust on the reveller’s head,

And the hoary for this, will more heavily tread.

Who next for a guerdon so precious applies?

A shaft from the quiver of Cupid now flies.

Yet why waste his archery? does he not know,

That Time is of Love the inveterate foe?

That the bloom of the heart, the hopes we most cherish,

In the snows of the withering spirit will perish?

For the Graces the child made a dial of flowers,

The Sage laid an index of ice on the hours.

Away then—the robe and the wreath are unwon,

Truth will not award them to Beauty’s blind son.

The Muse in despair wished the prize to revoke,

When Toil seizing Time by his silver forelock,

Compelled him to fly with the lightning’s speed,

And claimed for the Minstrel the promised meed.

Love, Music, and Wine, are too fleeting and light,

’Tis Labor that best can assist Time’s flight.

On his sun-burnt brow let the Wreath then rest,

And his sinewy form in the Robe be drest.

Fettered, yet fearless, ’mid the dungeon’s gloom,

Stood the majestic martyr! On his brow

The mazy mysteries of thought were seen;

Like twilight musings, where the inward beam

Contended ’gainst the darkness of despair.

Sudden, a sound of agony subdued,

Aroused him from his meditative trance—

Before him drooped his pale and trembling boy,

Bending to win his parting benediction.

It swelled the soul, and struggled thro’ the lip;

But when his hand essayed the outward sign,

Vainly it warred against the cruel circlet.

Curse on the coward’s bond—the traitor’s chain,

That strains my sinews in its cold embrace.

Yet shake thy sorrow off, my gentle child,

And let a fiercer impulse nerve thy breast;

Disdain the stagnant sadness that arrests

The vengeful current’s bold impetuous course.

Oh! that the lava of my bursting veins,

In its transmitted flow, would fire thy soul.

Is it for me to know the felon’s fate?

I, to whom lofty peril was delight?

Yet, undefiled shall be the captive’s corse;

His country’s triumph, shall dispel the taint,

And Freedom’s glories gild her champion’s grave.

Alas! my father, thy ignoble heir,

Feels not the haughty grief thou would’st inspire—

His life, his light, his luxury, is here!

This cell is luminous to his fond sense,

While thick’ning blackness now deforms the world.

Give me the banquet of thy presence still;

Strive not my spirit to divorce from thine,

Nor scorn the stricken, who, with thee would die!

Briton! wert thou baptised at mercy’s fount?

Or was it frozen at thy fatal birth?

Victor! didst thou behold the stony gaze,

The marble fixedness of mute despair,

The swift retreat of reason from her throne,

When, on the tortured sense of filial love,

Fell the defaced image of his sire?

Yet peace to thee! and may thy prisoned soul,

Ransomed from Death, attain its final goal.

The Chieftain from his courser sprang, and with a flashing
eye

Grasped that tri-colored Banner he would defend or die.

Waving it proudly o’er the bridge, he bounded to its
verge,

On to Arcola’s battle-field, his warriors to urge.

Shall Lodi’s laurels wither here? Forbid it Fame and
France!

Follow your leader, gallant hearts—to Victory advance.

Dauntless each bosom, when he touched Enthusiasm’s
chord;

And Austria’s haughty genius bowed at that young hero’s
word.

’Tis midnight—and a measured tread upon the captured
ground,

Denotes that Valor’s daring work, by Vigilance is
crowned.

It ceases—and on Glory’s prop, the Sentinel reposes,

Transported to his cottage-home, amid his bower of roses,

By the delusive power that loves in flowery links to bind

The spirit that would scorn its sway over the conscious
mind.

But soon upon that martial couch a mighty hand is prest,

Yet gently, as a sire afraid to break his infant’s rest.

Softly upon the verdant soil the sleeper’s head is laid,

While round the noble Corsican, the beams of mercy
played.

And he who o’er Italia’s plains victorious legions led,

Was now at that subaltern’s post, pacing with noiseless
tread.

Horror! the hours of duty past, a comrade brings relief,

At the qui vive the slumberer starts—it issues from his
Chief!

Napoleon! or do I yet dream? Alas! I am undone:

Farewell my long-forsaken wife—farewell to thee my
son!

Dismiss thy fear—thou art not doomed to that ignoble
death

Whose lightnings were decreed to blast the Traitor’s
tarnished wreath.

Sleep is thy only conqueror, invincible to all;

E’en Bonaparte surrenders to its resistless thrall.

Oh! sully not thy seraph-lip with words so full of scorn,

Profaning thus the crimson shrine where Purity was
born.

Weep for the wandering infidel whose deadly bosom
strife,

Has stirred each bitter drop that lurks within the stream
of life.

And think not that the Captive’s chain his senses can appal,

Whose every fibre vainly swells to burst the Spirit’s
thrall.

No! darker far than dungeon gloom the soul to Honor
dead,

From whose recess Serenity’s affrighted dove has fled.

Away with minstrel melodies—my heart responds no tone

Save that which trembling memory wakes upon her
cloudy throne.

Away with syren beauties—no balm can they dispense,

While the vision of thy loveliness yet lingers on my
sense.

When Spring from Flora’s sleeping child the frosty mantle
casts,

The rosy cherub lifts its head forgetful of chill blasts;

But never let the bud of Love a wintry torpor know,

Hope’s golden season comes no more to renovate its
glow.

Yet more accursed by Fate than thee, in sleepless dreams
I feel

The point Remorse delights to whet, the keen, though
viewless steel.

In visionary horrors wrapt, from gulfs of deep despair,

I spring towards Salvation’s Rock—a vengeful arm is
there!

In mockery thou hold’st a chain no power may unclasp,

Madly I seize the promised pledge, it severs in my
grasp.

The broken links are cast on me, and as I slowly sink,

The rock become a flowery scene. Felicity’s fair
brink!

From whence the perjured dashed the pure and broke
the spell of youth,

E’en while in melting accents fell the tender vow of
truth.

The Vulture’s cry would startle thee, its wildness would
dismay

When Fancy draws his fraily forth in withering array.

Thy curse would lose its venom—thy strain its caustic
fire,

And Mercy’s tears in silence fall upon thy broken lyre!

When the War-bugle and Tocsin cease,

And martial echoes yield to sounds of peace;

When Fancy fears no fatal influence near,

Her light to quench or verdant laurels sear,

In lovely visions rise her fairy band,

And countless Ariels obey her wand.

For tearless trophies genius then contends,

And Thespian knights to tragic tourneys sends.

With Satire’s archery, subtle Passion foils,

That serpent-like in human bosoms coils.

What Art may boast superior worth to man?

What Science best assists the moral plan?

Can Sculpture’s marble populace reclaim

The vicious reveller from the wreck of Fame?

Or Painting with its fragmentary lore,

The deep recesses of the heart explore,

Or with the Drama’s complicated force,

Remove the foul obstructions to remorse?

Re-action there from frailty far disjoined,

Too languidly rebukes the wandering mind,

Their mute monitions failing to control,

Still leave “th’ offending Adam” in the soul.

But here confederate in Virtue’s cause,

Each Muse triumphant to her standard draws,

In bold crusade ’gainst Vice and Folly rise

The frail to check, the flagrant to chastise.

What strikes the moral sense of human kind,

More than Ambition’s “dagger of the mind?”

Or tenderness transformed to jealous doubt,

Putting the light of Truth and Beauty out?

Love’sOpen note a09-rota Romeo and Juliet. “silvery mists” and all its summer glow,

By rashness changed to sable clouds of woe?

Where shall Apostates from the filial creed,

Beneath a keener stroke of Conscience bleed,

Than when the Royal MartyrOpen note a10-rota Lear. sends to Heaven

A curse that shows how Nature’s chords were riven?

Each maddening impulse that the spirit moves

In scenic portraiture its semblance proves.

Nor these alone, but sprightlier moods belong

And sweeter spells to the dramatic throng.

Wit springing up from his Midsummer’s dream,

Points to the Avon as his native stream.

Or gilds his arrows in the Emerald Isle,

To cast out motes or baffle scandal’s wile.

And mystic Harmony, that child of air,

With song and reed and mellow horn is here,

To breathe and die yet leave its soft control,

Its seraph influence in the chastened soul.

Since then the Stage can link such various arts

To soothe the sense and sanctify our hearts,

And Pleasure’s purest Temple is the sphere,

Where the alliance of a Smile and Tear,

Like Hope and Sorrow in the bond of Fate,

Reflects the tenure of our mortal state;

Bend hither gentle arbiters of Taste

Ye who irradiate Life’s sterile waste;

And hither bend all ye of graver mould,

While Fiction’s hand a telescope doth hold,

Can Time’s remotest periods bring to view

And all its faded images renew.

Two lovely sisters once referred to Reason’s arbitration

Their several long-contested claims to general admiration.
ra

Fair Visuala first appeared before the judgment seat,

And in her azure tunic looked most languishingly sweet.

Trembling awhile with downcast air she dropt her
snowy veil,

But kindling soon with confidence proceeded to appeal.

Through a contracted casement, long I gazed upon the
world,

Until by Sentiment arrayed, by Sympathy impearled,

I flashed in conscious beauty forth—and with a magic
ball

Struck all the hidden chords of Love, and held the heart
in thrall.

Mine is the elfin mirror too, whose fairy forms convey,

Light to imagination’s cell and round her visions play.

When Time has o’er the tracery of Recollection past,

My rays re-gild the images his shadow had o’ercast.

Iris in vain with graceful curve might on the cloud recline,

Were I not there her glowing hues and grandeur to define.

’Tis mine with graphic skill to mark the planetary blaze,

And track Urania’s truant child through his erratic ways.

Should Ion mimic Portraiture my chrystal portals close,

In vain on Nature’s lineaments her vivid tints she throws.

No more—I see my eloquence your gravity disarms,

For even reason boasts no shield against my various
charms.

The Judge relaxed into a smile when the soft pleader
ceased,

And from her painful silence next Auricula released.

A prelude on the drum was heard ere this appellant
spoke,

And at the sound the faculties though dormant then awoke.

Well has my rival now displayed attractions that may
vie

For their enchanting elegance with aught beneath the
sky.

But not exclusively her gift some of those vaunted powers:

Not her’s alone th’inspiring form round dreaming Fancy
hovers;

And Memory reposing oft upon Oblivion’s brink,

Starts when electric Echo strikes Association’s link.

Was she the sylph whose talisman touched sightless Homer’s
muse?

O’er Milton’s Eden did her spell celestial bloom diffuse?

Spirit of Melody! to whom the mightiest have knelt,

That senseless nerve has never yet thy soft vibrations
felt.

The melting cadence of thy song—the breathings of thy
shell,

Through me usurp th’ impassioned soul and Feeling’s
course impel;

To Reason now they both appear’d so equal in their
claims,

Alike so pleasing in their arts and in their generous aims,

Perplexed the Umpire soon resigned the task of arbitration,

Declaring both entitled well to general admiration.

A Congress of animals lately convened,

When Renard the subtle upon a stump leaned,

To declare the occasion that brought them together,

At the tinkling summons of Signor Belwether.

He knew he possessed not the art oratorical,

The eloquent gesture, or grace metaphorical;

Yet before public exigence every thing vanished,

And therefore false shame from his bosom was banished.

As Genius, he said, was of no sect or station,

But a root known to flourish in every nation,

He could not in justice to each fellow-brute,

Believe they were all of that gift destitute.

There are some among us much addicted to prating,

While others less sprightly prefer ruminating.

Their various talents with due cultivation,

May elevate those to some high legal station;

While the latter adorning Philosophy’s chair,

New temples to Fame may ambitiously rear.

Craniology now with long strides is advancing;

And though sages may call it the art of romancing,

The Lynx, who is blest with uncommon perception,

Foresees it will meet with a flatt’ring reception.

I now recommend that we forthwith depute,

Some shrewd-looking, silver-toned, garrulous brute,

The ablest Phrenologist soon to select,

Organic developments here to inspect.

Our several capacities thus ascertained,

We shall speedily know if it e’er was ordained,

That we should enjoy the diffusion of learning,

For which my aspiring spirit is yearning.

When the envoy by this honored body is named,

Without more delay let credentials be framed.

Goose-quills in abundance conveniently stand;

One of these may be dipt in the Great Cuttle’s gland;

From the Sheep in a trice you may parchment procure,

And the Seal will its secrecy doubtless insure.

The speaker thought fit at this period to pause,

And his motion elicited general applause:

Except from the Serpent and Owl, who expected

By hissing and hooting to have it rejected.

A few restive horses too, hoped by their neighs

To escape the curb-rein that enlightenment lays;—

But pity alone or contempt was excited,

For those who preferred to continue benighted.

And now a discussion the most animated,

Arose about him who should be delegated—

The Crab was too backward, the Cur too dogmatic,

And the Porpus (who had a great head) was asthmatic.

Categorical arguments would not be needed,

Therefore the pretensions of Puss was unheeded.

The Dolphin changed color at being proposed;

And the Dormouse at that very meeting had dozed.

The Emmet declared that his claim was Anterior

To any one there, though they might be superior.

The herd by a number of precedents showed,

That to send out a Bull was the Catholic mode.

To silence the clamour, a beautiful bird

Fluttered up to the Fox, and requested a word.

’Twas the Carrier-pigeon, the legate of Love,

Whose right to that dignity none could disprove.

With his known shining qualitites, speed was combined,

And each candidate soon in his favor resigned.

May the loveliest of envoys find grace in the sight

Of all who dispense intellectual light.

It was a brilliant summer’s eve,

When sportive sylphs delight to leave

In crowds their distant caves;

And Fancy tracks their tiny prints

Among the fairest flower tints

That e’er the dew-star laves.

I stood upon the Ocean’s brink,

And felt my spirit pant to link

Itself with loftier things;

When lo! an exiled child of space,

Th’ ephemera of the starry race,

A meteor, earthward springs.

The semi sea-birdOpen note a11-rota The Flying Fish. marked its flight

And vainly strove to reach the height

From whence the ethereal fell;

Then bitterly broke forth in ire—

“Sun-born yet ineffectual fire,

Can erring nature tell

Why thou, a splendid mockery,

Impatient of the glorious sky,

Should’st briefly brighten there?

While I, disdainful of the deep,

In crystal confines still must sleep,

Nor fill that genial sphere?”

I started—for that thought allied

Itself to my aspiring pride,

That musingly conjured

Each spirit of intelligence

To break the bonds and bars of sense,

That Heaven might be explored.

That circling free round Dian’s throne

I might transpierce that mystic zone

Where worlds lie unrevealed;

But Faith arrested Fancy here,

And caught my penitential tear

On her celestial shield.

Forbear your lighter moods ye lyric throng,

Subdue your sprightly chords to pensive song;

Let cypress now supplant your rosy crowns,

Relentless fate on kindred genius frowns.

Light of my youth! shall not my timid muse

In tributary verse her woe effuse?

Art thou not linked with every record dear,

That mem’ry loves to trace from childhood’s sphere?

Wer’t thou not he from whom my spirit caught

Its proudest aspirations to high thought?

Whose genial beam chased intellectual gloom,

Whose mental radiance cherished fancy’s bloom,

Fired with ambitious hopes my ardent soul,

And bent its energies to truth’s control?

Alas! the broken spell of wit and taste,

Thus from the social ring fore’er displaced!

The vivid scintiliations of a mind

By nature gifted and by lore refined;

Whose buoyant brilliancy could e’er dispense

Vivacity and vigor to the sense,

With flexile and ingenious art could spread

Rich classic gems o’er the colloquial thread;

With frolic humour laugh in sunny glades;

Or walk with science in her deepest shades.

Echoes of all are in the heart’s recess,

Dreams of departed joys thy power confess;

The spoiler triumphs o’er the child of earth,

But weeping Fame renews his moral birth.

She gazed upon the golden pedge—oh! how could she
forget,

When first upon her trembling hand, Love’s glitt’ring
seal was set;

When Hope, upon the cherished link, a softened lustre
shed,

And she had thought, confidingly, on roses e’er to tread.

Again she looked upon the ring, and faster flowed her
tears,

For in that fairy circle dwelt the memory of years—

The purity of bridal vows, the promise ne’er to sever,

But in delight or peril still, cling to the plighted ever.

And is it Freedom, before whom Felicity has flown?

Yes! for that shrine my lord forsook his own domestic
throne;

The legends of his trampled land chivalrous deeds disclose,

And Kosciusco’s laurels late deprived him of repose.

The purple trail that Carnage leaves upon the blushing
earth,

Will guide you to my hero’s tomb, where victory had
birth:

E’en Temples must, with mute appeal, to Piety invoke,

For now their brazen tongues resound but Liberty’s
bold stroke.

Shall I, degenerate, then reserve the trophy of my heart,

When even holiness, for this, must with her heralds part?

Away! and mingle with the pile that Patriotism’s wand

Converts, by purest alchymy, to Freedom’s fiery brand.

No fond regret shall sully now the glorious oblation,

The sanctifying sacrifice, that liberates a nation!

Come listen to time in the valley of tears,

Unveiling to man the illusion of years,

Of specious disguises all things disposessing,

His touchstone transforms e’en the bane to a blessing;

And that which seem’d precious to mortal perception,

The oracle’s voice still proclaims mere deception,

Oh! what does the monitor’s record unfold,

Felicities fleeting like false, fairy gold,

Ambition aspiring to reach barren heights,

Youth’s volatile chase of unreal delights,

Of joys that like Spring’s florid beauties depart,

Regaling the sense, but ne’er reaching the heart.

Shall Hope then alone boast perpetual prime?

No, Memory’s bloom is immortal as Time,

Redeemer and Prophetess born in the soul,

Still mingle your powers to mock his control.

Bright types of the Future and Past, now appear,

Catch the sign of the parting and speed the New-Year.

While Hope’s silver plume rests o’er classical isles,

Remembrance springs back amid Spartan defiles,

To show how superior to buckler or tower,

Are breasts mailed by Freedom and Truth’s moral
pow’r.

Again shall those radiant spirits dispel,

From Poetry’s rock and Philosophy’s cell

Those shadows of darkness fell tyranny flung

O’er the Eden in which Epic genius first sung.

Oh! joy to the world, the avenger is near,

To shiver the Ottoman’s sceptre and spear:

The vision still brightens—Hope’s iris appears,

And Grecia the charter of liberty bears.

Again prostrato Muses shall start from the dust

And ransom their harp-strings from silence and rust;

And Sculpture once more on her pedestal place

Some beaming conception of grandeur or grace!

Strive on all ye nations, whose banners are blending,

Till Peace on each beautiful islet descending,

Calls Fame from her exile fresh laurels to twine,

And lay the bright garland on Liberty’s shrine.

But has Pity no tear for Peruvian chains?

Shall Anarchy blight Chili’s glittering plains?

Oh, never! Hope whispers the world shall be free,

And man but to Deity bend the proud knee.

Independence upraising a bright starry sign,

Bade America first realize the design:

Her patriots rallied in that holy light

And triumphed o’er pride and imperial might.

May personal views yield to general zeal,

And social forever o’er self-love prevail.

Ye scions of heroes! Columbia’s youth,

May ye e’er prove chivalric in honour and truth.

But say, Carolina, why droops thy fair head?

Against thy free bosom what arrow is sped?

May we not to antogonist elements trace

The cloud that impends o’er thy once smiling face?

Ah, true, for a river god, fickle as chance,

Now rises to greet, now repels thy advance.

The steam-boats, those idols of enterprize luring,

Awhile to forsake for his bosom their mooring

Then recreant shrinks from those fire-nymphs far,

Nor fails the fair aspect of commerce to mar.

Yet cheered be the South! for a power is near

That shall brighten her prospects and banish each
fear—

Obsequious to genius, see rail-ways arise,

And trade each frail impulse forever defies.

How rapidly now comes the snowy fleece down,

As swiftly as flakes from the sable clouds thrown,

And shall it not be like the bounty of Heaven,

Diffused over earth and to distant shores given?

Now murmuring sounds reach the listening ear,

Enjoining to cherish the precious gift here;

Nor let foreign pastures or looms ever yield

Those textures that patriot forms are to shield.

A truce to the Tariff—success to each State,

Whether triumph await it or final defeat.

Ye Statesmen! the question to you I now leave

For the head that’s wool-gath’ring no verses can weave.

A word on canalling: the poet has said

How Neptune o’er woodland hills sparkled and stray’d.

Ah, dim-sighted mortals! your boldest designs

Betray want of prescience in all human minds,

For often made captive and chained by the frost,

His trident is ceded, his tribute is lost!

And now, gen’rous patrons, the muse must forbear

From loftier themes in my cause to appear.

Awhile place yourselves in the Carrier’s stead,

And you cannot deny him his annual meed.

Compell’d to monotonous movements each night,

No team-horse was e’er in more sorrowful plight:

Winter breezes assailing his shivering form,

Summer planets more merciless yet than the storm;

In spirits subdued and in senses oppress’d,

Of such an existence, oh! what is the zest?

Yet Mem’ry and Hope both forbid to despair,

And promise a Boon for the First of the Year.

We are children of Light, and were sent by the Lord,

In pledge to mankind of Divine Love restored.

Descending from Heaven we seemed but as one,

And pure as the Vestals that worship the Sun.

But touching the Earth, what a marvellous change!

Each left his companion and sought a new range.

One addled by modesty mutely betrayed,

The latent impression Love’s arrows had made.

Another is found in the Violet’s cup,

Baptized by the spring in a chrystal dew drop.

We brighten the leaflet, the lip, and the eye,

We travers the ether, and glow in the sky.

Deserted by us, Art and Beauty would languish,

But we’re chased from the presence of Terror and Anguish.

We live in the blossoms, and lurk in the showers,

And darkness alone can destroy our powers.

I love thee more as thou are now

The victim of a broken vow,

Than in that hour of past sunshine

When fancy wildly thought thee mine

But feeling then was falsified

By vanity and youthful pride,

Until I found my dream of power

The glittering phantom of an hour.

I may not think how light the chain

Thy fleeting steps could not detain;

My quivering lyre could never dwell

Upon that fatal word farewell!

Too tender to remain unmoved

Another was by thee beloved;

And Hope, a smiling bright envoy,

Brought from the promised land of Joy

Her clustering fruitage, whose sweet taste

The memory of woe effaced.

Alas! I feared Love’s new decoy,

Would mock thy lip, thy peace destroy.

I saw the serpent ’neath the rose

Beguile thee into false repose;

Tho’ every feeling took alarm

I dared not shew the latent harm.

Thou would’st have chid me that unsought

Affection’s warning I had brought,

And deemed perhaps a rival’s fears,

Alone perceived those lurking snares.

Oh God! I saw thy melting eye

Flash out in madness fearfully;

The ruin perfidy had wrought

Was traceable in mien and thought.

Then came that stagnant sadness dread,

That mutely mourns when Frenzy’s fled.

The chords of sympathy seemed crushed

And all Life’s harmonies were hushed.

With tears and penetintial balm

I sought thy wounded soul to calm.

But in the wreck of passion’s storm,

Thy mind conceived each gentle form

Th’ embodied principle of guile,

That blasted with its baneful smile.

And I was spurned—yet undismayed

The task of soothing still essayed;

Reluctantly didst thou confess

The sorcery of tenderness,

Yet have I ransomed from despair

The noblest haert in Nature’s sphere.

High on the rock of Ages Fancy stands,

A kindling lyre trembles in her hands.

Her eye like Ocean, restless, blue, and wild,

Seeks springs of inspiration undefiled.

She strikes! and Echo rushing from his cave,

In sonorous eddies cleaves th’ ærial wave.

Sing! great magician of the spell-bound soul,

Thy own enchantments and their vast control.

Of lisping strains in artless youth begun,

The virgin laurel Minstrelsy first won,

When sympathetic sounds in union grand,

Join’d Hope with Mem’ry in a metric band.

When rebel passions like the Titans broke

From their strong necks immortal Virtue’s yoke,

To hurl the clamorous monsters to the earth

Invention struck her brain, and Art had birth.

Art that like Wisdom’s sire rose to slay,

Unshielded, spearless, void of War’s array.

Leaping from pastoral vales to Thalia’s height,

In comic feats he proved his moral might;

And next with tragic energy essayed

To rescue Truth from Fiction’s mazy shade.

But first woke Music from her shelly couch,

Who made creation vocal by her touch.

And Painting from her canvass bed he drew

To give the scenic landscape Nature’s hue.

With these enlinked he traversed human walks

Where every Vice a proud Goliath stalks.

Factitious strokes Ambition’s helmet felled,

Pride lost his plume, and Power’s rage was quelled.

Sharp Vengeance slumbered on his pointless sword,

And Folly roused, resumed creation’s lord.

Ah! wherefore does the mimic warfare cease

Within thy Thespian temples aged Greece?

Around thy classic horizon what gloom

Converts Fame’s cradle to lost Freedom’s tomb?

A gothic spirit darkens all thine isles,

The Helot’s mantle thy proud race defiles.

And generous arts from Attic shores were driv’n

When Ali’s crescent first usurped thy Heav’n.

To Alpine heights the orphaned Muses fled,

Sublime as Prophecy on Horeb’s head,

Their threat’ning voices rose to warn the bold

’Gainst syren pleasure; in whose silken fold

The serpent Slavery couched its venomed sting

To poison Man’s most precious bosom-spring.

In vain! tho’ Satire thundered from the stage

To strike and purify an erring age,

Before soft ease Rome’s thousand glories fell,

Nor Freedom there, nor Science deigns to dwell.

They paused for Ages—then pursued their flight

And lent to Avon’s cygnet plumes of light.

And lo! they come to brighten Western scenes,

And freemen bend to histrionic Queens.

Their mighty engines move the sullied soul

With gentle force towards perfection’s goal.

What shriek is that the echoes send to Heaven?

Was it in madness or in mockery given?

Alas! not vainly silence wakens now,

Death seeks a victim in the vale below,

See! where forlorn of hope yon traveller stands

With aspen lips, fixed eyes, and cold, clasped hands;

The sward’s portentous motions shews the harm

That e’n in valor’s breast might strike alarm.

Uncoiling with slow malice rings of gold,

A serpent’s chequered length on earth is roll’d.

Oh! for that mitred one of Israel’s host

Beneath whose snaky wand perish’d the Magi’s boast:

Or for that cradled gaint’s arm of power

That crushed twin reptiles in life’s primal hour.

Nor Hebrew’s art, nor Heathen’s grasp I vaunt,

What then shall chase that ruin from man’s haunt?

Blest chance! the Indian’s serpent-spell remains,

Perhaps attracted by my pipe’s rude strains,

The foe is fated prey may yet forego,

And sinuous seek the source from whence the flow.

Aid me, thou Royal Minstrel, whose sweet thrall,

Subdued dark spirits in the breast of Saul.

Or thou whose plaintive harpings could reclaim

From ebon shades thy love—or forest tame.

That wanderer redeemed, I dare thy wrath,

Thou creeping mischief in the pilgrim’s path.

He’s saved! for ravished by enchanting sound,

The dread destroyer now forgets to wound.

Slides the sooth’d monster in th’ harmonious snare,

While the charmed man, starting from deep despair,

Bounds with electric swiftness thro’ the vale,

Nor pauses till within his well known pale.

A liquid firmament the ocean seemed,

A placid glory o’er its waters gleamed,

When buoyant late the lost Edwina past,

Proudly careering o’er the crystal waste.

No wailing zephyr, no ærial sprite

Whispered dark bodings of approaching blight,

Blithely she sped, and spirits firm and frail,

Sanguine within her covert woo’d the gale,

But e’en from the pavillion of the sun,

The storm unheralded came howling on,

Radiant in wrathful majesty awhile,

The tempest masked its frown but to beguile,

Stirred by the trumpet breezes, myriad waves

In foamy coronets forsook their caves.

Rushed like banditti on the reeling barque

And dashed the trembling pilgrims from their ark.

From one of these let Friendship lift the pall,

And Virtue’s offspring from oblivion call.

For though no marble orator proclaims

Her love devotional and lofty aims,

The heart’s inscription ne’er can be effaced

On which her moral image has been traced.

The gentle guardian of domestic bliss,

’Twas hers to press the ruffled plume of peace—

Enchanting by her mien and manners bland,

In duty’s sphere she waved a magic wand.

Subdued ambition sought no loud acclaim,

Her partner’s plaudit was her highest fame.

Alas! for him whose bosom feels the shaft

Deeper as mem’ry doth her worth ingraft

The wild disorder of his wandering glance,

Seeks her incredulous of Fate’s romance.

Three broken chords life’s harmony destroy

The triple souce of transitory joy:

Their rifled bloom impatient to restore

His idols to the shrine of health he bore.

But Death impetuous forestalled decay

And Hope long cherished lost that lingering ray.

Oh! balmy piety thy barrier rear,

Nor let deep Sorrow darken to despair.

Thy power shall lift his thoughts to purer spheres

And fervid faith exhale the mourner’s tears.

Eagle.

Stay, timid nestler! lift thy dazzled eye

And mark the sunbow glories of yon sky.

See! where the Day gathering his purple robes

Turns in his golden chariot to new globes.

The glacier touched and tinted by his ray

Like some pale virgin blushing melts away.

Earth in his absence lifts her flowery cups

To catch from dew stars their bewailing drops.

All nature wears the weeds of widowed sorrow

Nor smiles till light like hope relumes the morrow.

My wing is seen waved in his fiercest ray,

Proudly I bear the title Bird of Day.

But thou art coldly turning from his track,

To win some shady grove thou’rt hastening back.

Dove.

To humbler fame and flight let me aspire

I dare not venture near his throne of fire.

I love the dawn, the twilight, and the hour

When moonlight softly breaks through trellissed bow’r.

Mine is the vigil that affection keeps

Near downy beds where tender nurseling sleeps.

The callow trembler too I love to guide

In brief excursions through the aerial tide.

Teach it the simple structure of a home,

Warn it from flight where ravening vultures roam,

Lead it where aliment is best supplied—

In tasks like these my placid life doth glide.

I too rejoice in the soft name of Dove

The bird of beauty and the type of Love.

Thus man, creation’s noblest, braves the sun,

In glory’s sphere his brilliant race is run.

On field or ocean on the flashing fight

His unblenched gaze fastens with stern delight,

Peril his bride, Protection his first vow,

His soul exults in a perennial glow,

While gentleness retreats to some lone shade,

In tenderness her triumph is displayed.

To watch the babe with moistened lips apart

Smiling in sleep to be so near her heart.

Instruct its lisping tonguetongue with infant steps

Its God, its Father, to adore and bless!

Moulding its waxen mind in virtue’s cast,

Ushering the youth into the world at last.

The War Staff on its height an Eagle bears,

In Peace the Dove with typic leaf appears.

There is a Lyre a Seraph’s hand may smite,

So pure the strains in which its chords delight.

A Cowper’s Genius once controlled its strings,

With Mary’s name its lingering echo rings.

Intrepid Muse! that shall its slumbers rouse,

To breathe at Friendship’s shrine melodious vows

Yet in that chastened Spirit will I sing,

Tho’ Fame no incense o’er my verse shall fling.

Maiden! let Bards inspired by Beauty’s son,

Tell thee thine eyes have nobler conquests won

Than all the dread Artillery of Mars;

Let these rehearse the tale of Cupid’s wars.

Nor will I bring the Rose of Cashmere’s vale,

Or silver lily from sequestered dale,

In strange similitude to cheek and brow.

Such moral blossoms shall the Minstrel strew,

As Virtue plants and Truth portrays in you.

Here purity has found a taintless shrine,

And Modesty unfolds her tints divine,

Here Meekness emulous of Heav’n’s elect,

Holds native pride by pious feeling check’d.

Another stamp of excellence confest,

Is candor on thy guileless soul imprest,

Pure, Modest, Meek, Ingenuous, Refined,

Thou wer’t for Love and social bliss designed.

Those twin-born ministers of mortal joy,

Shall fill thy cup and free it from alloy.

No raving Sybil doth thy lot reveal,

Affection prophecies what Fate shall seal.

Mysterious Monarch of the human soul!

Who can define the bound of thy control?

In vassalage to thee imperial Queen

Bend frail and firm, the savage and serene.

Thy sable wing is seen alike to hover,

O’er Fancy’s terrace, and o’er Reason’s tower.

Darkening the forms of majesty or grace,

These various powers may delight to trace.

In Pleasure’s track we find thy frequent print,

And Beauty’s brow tenacious of thy tint,

’Mid all its bright revealings will betray,

Thy shadow stealing oft o’er rapture’s ray.

Unbidden at the banquet thou’lt dismiss

Each sparkling bubble from the bowl of bliss.

In vain may Youth to dance and song be woo’d,

Touch but a chord in Memory’s solitude,

And all the magic of the Minstrel’s art,

Shall fail to chase its echoes from the heart.

It is thy spirit that with serpent wile

Would in Love’s Eden every flower defile.

Yet mirth at best is treacherously bright

And mocks the senses with its meteor light.

Fain would the pensive muse its beam evade,

And languid rest within thy sombre shade.

Twining a wreath of thorns around my lyre,

Sadness, thou shalt fore’er its chords inspire.

Yes! it must be! martyr of latent Love

That bitter lesson woman’s heart must prove,

That unclaimed fondness must corrode her breast

Ere the deep pang of passion be confest.

Flowers there are that never caught a ray

Of genial ardor from the God of Day!

But from whose languid lips a cold, cold, dew

Distils away their odour and their hue.

So fades Love’s blossom in the moral soil

When stern indiff’rence bids sweet Hope recoil

Nor dissipate with sunny smiles the tear,

That hangs upon the cheek of pale despair.

Alas! my own heart echoes thy sad song,

“I loved thee well,” vibrates there loud and long.

And I like thee will die—but not unwept

The tenderness that in his life hath slept,

Regret will waken when some future hour

Reveals beneath his tread a withered flower;

That sought no light but what his eye might give,

Yet wanting that, surceased to bloom and live.

Touched by the Sun, the Harp of Memnon swells,

In wind-swept reeds the soul of Music dwells.

But when proud Genius grasps the metric wires,

What glowing beam, what genial breath inspires?

Chaste Fancy! while thy light engilds his strings,

Thy blast Renown the quivering welkin rings.

Star of the minstrel! now direct my song,

Break the thick cloud of memory—while along

The frozen track of parted time I stray,

To hear again dark Mæon’s magic lay.

O’er broken Statues, blasted wreaths I tread,

In these pale types his native Greece is read.

The weeping vestals of her Classic rock,

With withered bays their sleeping Lyres mock

Art’s palsied fingers idly press the stone,

Herself a Niobe from ceaseless moan.

The thirsty canvass pants for that pure dew,

Which infant Painting from an Iris drew.

No car-borne Thespis ’neath his ruddy mask,

Reclaims Corruption by the comic task.

The Histrionic twins forsake his stage,

And Life’s Dramatic Scenes their powers engage.

Pity for Freedom mourns, while Terror stalks,

Through Delphic groves, and Philosophic walks.

The snow that hangs upon Italia’s brow,

Nor melts in Titan’s strong meridian glow,

The moral image of her sons reveals,

Whose high born souls a rigid coldness seals;

Though recollection darts a thousand rays,

From Glory caught in Maro’s golden days,

No Lyric strains the listening echoes catch,

No Genii there Poetic fires watch.

Alike the smiling and the sorrowing Muse,

By ruin touched their Latian Temples lose.

Woe! to the climes omnipotent in Art,

Lost are their Laurels—lost their moral chart.

The Muses banned from native rocks and seas,

With mellow harpings fill each mountain breeze:

Where float thy banners, where thy eagles fly,

Spirit of life, star-crested Liberty!

Though no Corinthian crowns our structures crest,

Here let the Syren pilgrims ever rest,

To rifle Time of all his ringlets gray,

And make his winter smile like Eden’s May.

Sigh not that the Rose’s tints grow pale,

Fresh buds will come with the vernal gale;

Shed pity’s dew for the faded cheek,

Whose snow no flower of health may break.

Let tear drops fall for the truth I sing,

The Seasons of Life have no second Spring.

Why weep that in Winter the violet dies?

Lids of snow close in death o’er the brightest blue eyes.

And why waste thy sorrow on Hearts-ease of Earth?

Weep for that which when lost can ne’er have second
birth.

Grieve not that the Lily will bend to the gust,

And its broken stem bring its pure petals to dust;

Let woe-stricken Age all thy sympathy wake,

When some ruffian relentless its prop doth break;

Weep for silver hairs that decline to the tomb,

When the verdure of Innocence loses its bloom.

But anguish will steal Beauty’s blossom away,

And thy own passing loveliness thus will decay.

Remember Love’s cradle in dimples we seek,

And his sepulchre find in the furrowed cheek.

Then weep not for Violets, Lilies or Roses,

Nor yet for the truth that the minstrel discloses;

But leave “Fading Flowers” and turn to those hues,

Whose vivid enchantments Time never renews.

Let others elegize an only child,

To such a loss by time we’re reconciled,

But who can see an only coat depart,

A faultless specimen of fashion’s art,

Bright, blue and beautiful as any eyes,

That e’er elicited a lover’s sighs,

And not in sorrow’s transport turn ascetic,

Or thus record his woe in rhymes pathetic?

Oh! had it been the victim of decay,

And vanished in the ordinary way,

Had spotted-fever been its fleecy bane,

In fuller’s earth it undeplored had lain,

With stoic firmness, I had met my fate,

Nor sought in doggerel grief to dissipate,

But unpolluted by a single stain,

Without a tear its beauty to profane.

Can I my cherished treasure thus resign,

When my whole wardrobe tends to a decline.

Oh! rather had I seen my favourite dye,

Than in its soundest nap compelled to fly;

Some African Apollo to array,

Its collar rising high at the display.

Fugitive pieces by the muses mourned,

Are often with the stamp of fame returned;

Such barren honors fiction e’er be thine,

So that my press becomes no plunderer’s shrine.

Behold the peg on which my late coat hung,

No more—affliction fetters pen and tongue.

The light of Glory gilds the Harp that rings a Hero’s
name,

And lofty Bards delight to track his bright career of
fame.

Mine is the bitter luxury, melodious woe to breath,

And pour the Lyric plaint from chords no classic leaf
may wreathe.

To sing of One whose blazonry was found on Honor’s
field—

Whose heraldry divinely traced a spotless heart revealed:

A child of Song and Liberty—whose mental eye explored

The labyrinth where Science lurked, the height to which
she soared—

In whom the brilliant harmony of moral strength and
grace,

By turns, in martial transports played, or passion’s melting
trace.

The fountains of his heart ran free amid Affection’s
bloom,

And every feeling had imbibed its delicate perfume.

There was a spell in every tone enchantment undefined,

To which Love’s purest sympathies were passively resigned.

They touched a gentle spirit soon, whose semblance
might be sought,

In Nature’s fairest tints and forms, most exquisitely
wrought.

The golden clusters of her hair, waved on her lofty brow

Like infant sunbeams that descend to sport on Alpine
snow.

Nor was she prized for loveliness, that perishes on earth,

He felt that Beauty’s signet there had stamped superior
worth.

Oh! who that mild enthusiast marked in every varying
mood—

When sterner instincts swelled his breast, or softer ones
subdued;

Who that beheld his gallant mien or heard his bold command,

When proudly pledged to vindicate the Banner of his
land;

Dreamed that its drooping folds ere while, should mantle
o’er his bier,

As if a youthful Seraph’s form had sought a starry
sphere!

Farewell! Farewell! mysterious fate her charter will
enforce,

And kindred bosoms fondly linked, relentlessly divorce.

Still is the mourner’s treasured balm, found in this
truth sublime,

Virtue shall e’er triumphant soar, above Decay and
Time.

A Pilgrim returned to his “childhood’s home,”

From the “crowded path of the world” he had come.

Mysterious changes his spirit had known

And mirth had now lost its free, innocent tone.

On his pale brow too might be seen the mute token

How joy like a bubble had sparkled and broken!

How the links of his bosom-affections were riven

Ere he turned from that scene to repentance and Heav’n.

But the sybil leaves that had whispered him there

Prophetic of things that his heart should sear,

Like the verdure of Youth had they passed away,

Like Fancy and Feeling their foliage decay?

Ask the chartered breeze for their withered remains,

It has borne them far from their native plains.

He came to the groves where the wild birds were singing,

But how could he list while Remembrance was ringing

The knell of delights that were born in those bowers,

When Hope’s melodies rose among Purity’s flowers.

The warblers had perched on the thorns in his breast,

And his heart to that strain now no echo confest.

He turned from the woods to the oracle-streams,

That had once disenchanted his loveliest dreams.

But their waters now solaced his feverish heart

And their liquid language a balm did impart.

We are leaping and laughing with infantine glee,

But will change our course and flow on to the sea.

O’er treasures and gems we will carelessly glide,

Then mingling with Ocean and lost in its tide,

Be tremblingly swayed by a Heavenly Guide.

Oh, beautiful image! Life’s currents like thine

Run sportively on from their natal shrine.

In the eddies of Passion awhile sink or swell,

Nor heed the rich pearl, in the mortal shell,

Till meeting Eternity’s waves they arise,

And attracted by Mercy spring up to the skies.

How false the foundation on which both have built.

If your hair was spurious—my heart was gilt.

Pale was the Bride, as Purity’s sweet rose

That lay on Thought’s high throne in soft repose—

But paler far that rival vestal’s cheek,

Where weeping Pity traced wild Passion’s wreck.

Yet lingering graces in the ruin slept;

Soft touching relics by the storm unswept.

The self-deriding instinct of Despair

Had placed a crimson blossom in her hair:

And as the hectic herald of Decay

Within the sphere of smiles insidious lay,

So coiled Corruption in that ruby cave,

Seeking its banquet still at Beauty’s grave.

But, oh! what thrilling tones the vault ascend,

When wreathing wasted arms around her friend,

Long hoarded feelings to her lips arise:

“Yes! let my heart’s strings latest harmonies,

Though broken and untuned to strains of joy

Swell out to wish thee bliss without alloy.

Yet shrink not should this truth thine ear assail,

My burial shroud shall be thy bridal veil.

Twin-born with thine the hope that now has perish

Behold in him the idol both have cherished!

Oh! false discretion—fatal source of woe!

That when the fount of Confidence would flow,

With its cold breath the genial stream congealed

And left the worshipped one still unrevealed.

Alas! the shame—that he alone discerned

The lofty quarry to which Lelia turned;

And strove to lure with gentle artifice

The fluttering falcon to the perch of Peace.

Ne’er swerving from the fond allegiance sworn,

Yet soothing oft the sensitive forlorn.

I knew, I knew this chord would wring thy soul,

Yet fain must press it ere I reached my goal.”

The sufferer ceased—and soon the wailing crowd,

Saw in the bridal veil her burial shroud.

Her faint farewell amid its folds were breathed,

And Love’s sweet myrtles thus with cypress wreathed.

A single drop amid the boundless main

Once fancied the solliloquizing strain:—

Why was I but a petty bubble born

Too insignificant for love or scorn?

Why did I not into a lake expand,

Or boldly like a bay invade the land.

A giant’s tear—yet on creation’s face

Seem I not dwindled to the pigmy race?

In my pellucid globule e’en a fly

Fearless of drowning might serenely lie.

As thus the water drop its fate deplores,

A gaping oyster in its cell immures

The jealous rebel, who with fear congealed

Became a pearl and left the liquid field.

Exalted to the brow of regal pride,

Ambitious gem, thou art to pomp allied.

In Nature’s pageant tremulously bright,

Wert thou not lovelier than at grandeur’s height;

Callous, in thy conversion thou hast lost

Reflection’s power, once thy proudest boast.

The Sun, that kindled in thy crystal sphere,

Tints that with the diamond’s might compare,

Now sees thy rayless purity obscured

By every twinkler in the glittering borde.

The Patriarch bowed before the eastern beam,

Like the gray herald of the golden day—

Awhile he lingered for that rising light

Whose kindling lustre should his own efface.

But the prophetic dreamer slumbered on:

In Glory’s bright meridian then he seemed.

Celestial orbs their glistening spheres forsook:

Meteors flew ministrant to his commands,

And the careering planets at this feet

In visionary vassalage appeared.

Still the delusive spell his sense entranced,

While Israel’s orison alone arose

Upon the odorous breezes of the morn.

But the mellifluous tones of infancy

Dissolved the deep enchantment of repose.

“Brother, my cherished lamb has bounded far,

And broke the flowery chain that Judah twined:

Wilt thou not seek the fleecy fugitive,

And lure the truant back to Benoni?”

Forth sprang the youth with fancied power elate,

His sire saluted, and implored to solve

The mystic import of the dreamy text.

Indignant he in those bright phantoms saw

Homage reversed, and silver-haired allegiance

In humble suppliance at the filial shrine.

As if the sun that cherished the spring flower

Should yield the incense it was wont t’ receive.

Yet soon relapsing into tenderness,

He kissed the forehead of the future seer,

And in his rainbow-robe, like Mercy’s type,

But not, alas! a covenant of peace,

With fatal gladness Joseph fled the tent,

To seek his shepherd-brethren on the plain.

Don’t laugh at my penmanship dearest Hyperion,

Of my skill this epistle’s a sorry criterion;

But my quill wanted nibbing—so what should I do,

But for lack of a knife took the tongue of a shrew;

Which conferred on my Godship a cut so severe,

As with nought but the wound of a heart may compare.

Let this with my blindness the billet excuse,

Then don’t pause to criticise—only peruse.

And let Mercury, mounted on wing-sped Pegasus,

This extra convey to the press of Parnassus.

Heretofore it had been the vocation of eyes,

Assisted by certain auxiliary sighs,

To interpret the mystical language of Love;

As my archives attest in the Paphian grove.

But a volume of late to the world has been tender’d,

Where hearts are by treaties of flowers surrender’d.

And this verdant type now preferred in translation,

Supersedes the old method of initiation.

Against this revolution the senses demur,

And a suit versus Flora to Venus prefer:

They insist ’twas the scheme of a withered gallant,

Who first made a druggerman of the Ice Plant.

Solecisms are found too in this floral speech,

The Golden King Cup says I wish I was rich.

Coral lips by the cynic are called hypocritical,

Honey Suckle, that all know to be parasitical,

Professing fidelity clings to each stranger

That offers support when it would be a ranger.

For Ingratitude too what an emblem’s selected

In the Rose that is thornless that vice is detected.

In the Elder, Compassion is made to appear,

We grow callous by age in Reality’s sphere.

But let me conclude for this is mere carping,

And I guess by that twang that you wish to be harping.

Then counsel me Archer and Lyrist divine,

Shall the spirit of fragrance her sceptre resign?

Or visual violets still reign supreme,

And roses incarnate yet blush in my beam?

The “language d’Amour” now waits your revision,

And Cupid will bow to Apollo’s decision.

Time had for thee the Roman’s wish achieved,

Demanding why no monument retrieved

From dark oblivion, thy illustrious shade?

Nobly hath Liberty the answer made!

Not in the florid text of venal verse,

The mountain muse thy merits would rehearse;

Nor lavish incense that alike perfumes

The shrine immaculate and tarnish’d tombs.

The soul of hist’ry on thy tablet lies,

’Tis immortality in simple guise,

And patriot pilgrims shall in homage kneel

To freedom’s scripture on that marble seal.

The world’s insolvent for that peerless gem,

Which paled the lustre of a diadem.

Maternal purity its polish wrought,

Reflected radiance from thy breast was caught.

Rest to the loftiest! let heraldic pride

Its sterile grafts before such scions hide,

The land’s redeemer, link’d with Mary’s name,

In glorious union shall descend to Fame!

Why stranger hast thou left the spicy gale

Thy tissue-plumage on our fields to trail?

A Peri’s banner first thy pinion seemed,

Emblazed with tints from Eden’s wreck redeemed.

Say beauteous volatile—can it then be,

That thou enamoured too of Liberty,

Would for her perch that sweet Aroma shun,

Whose balm is purest near the rising Sun?

Thrice welcome radiant pilgrim to those groves,

Through which the Monarch-bird triumphant roves!

Ay, linger here—let Orient buds expand

For some colossal trampler of the land:

Let the frail blossoms of the human stem

Yield their crushed incense ’neath a diadem.

Here Freedom’s sensitive and starry flower

Recedes elastic from the touch of power.

Oh! would my timid wing might now retrace,

Its erring flight back to my natal place.

Thy Sylvan deities my sense affright,

Such verdant Titans startle sons of light.

I dare not gaze upon thy dazzling eye,

And form dilating into majesty.

If independence wears an aspect bold,

As that which Nature’s image doth unfold,

Where the Sun cradles, let me seek my nest

Far from the fearful region of his rest.

Speed then! ignoble trembler, turn and speed

Where fragrance mingles with the moral weed.

Thy dastard spirit shrinks from the sublime,

And clings degenerate to the Despot’s clime.

Away! and when thy beauty’s splendid lure,

Shall tempt the sordid reed on thy loved shore,

Perhaps thy sad expiring thought may be

Would I had died among the glorious free!

In darkness past the fiend of storms—

Rushed from their caves Æolian forms,

Rattling their mighty wings like thunder,

Rending the nitrous clouds asunder.

Oceans of rain oppress the earth,

Or swell the sources of their birth.

Disdainful of the curbing shore,

Onward the foaming waters roar.

Strong barks the giant waves are lashing,

Now heav’nward tossed—now downward dashing,

The sinews of their masts unstrung,

While at their heads the death note’s sung,

By birds ne’er vocal till the hour

Dark omens of the tempest lour.

Partners in mournful fate farewell!

Ye ruffian winds now hoarsely tell,

To orphans and the wives we cherished

How ’neath your scourge their kindred perished.

A cry went up—the sound was hushed

As o’er the wreck, wild waters rushed.

Fallen in their pride are mighty oaks,

The dwarf-tree here our pathway chokes.

Relaxing roofs lose their cement

The shelter of the dome is rent.

The timid tenants glance to heaven,

Its walls by aerial wrath ne’er riven,

Frown as the elements of woe,

Contending deal the desolating blow.

But who is he depressed and pale,

As lily rifled by the gale

Of all its precious balms and bells?

Oft ruin thus the spirit fells—

Has Fortune’s contrast caused despair,

Like that unransomed by a tear?

Perhaps remembrance haunts his heart,

With thoughts of those he saw depart,

But late to tempt the trackless main—

Thus deep is sympathetic pain?

Oh blind! see human blossoms cropt,

His heart the stem from which they dropt,

The thorn of Fate has touched its core,

His blooming babes look up no more

To catch his smile, or claim his kiss—

No wonder he has reached th’ abyss,

Of agony and mute distress.

An icy bolt his soul doth press,

Freezing the vital fluids there,

Till sculptured man alone seems near.

What unction for a wound so deep?

None—save the grave’s eternal sleep!

Now glancing rays of morning light

Reveal the horrors of the night.

Commingling voices weep and pray,

That peril e’er may pass away,

And Time alone produce decay.

Hast thou ne’er marked from birth to prime,

Some child of promise as it passed

Through all the mazy tracks of Time,

Towering on Reason’s height at last?

Chords in his heart for touch of glory,

Tints in his cheek for Hope to heighten,

Dew in his eye for pity’s story,

Or young affection’s glance to brighten?

Hast thou not wept as sullen knell,

Borne plaintively upon the breeze,

Pierced through thy stricken ear to tell,

The tomb had yawned for one of these?

Yet from thy brow would care depart,

When the soul’s charter was recalled;

Blight may not touch th’ ethereal part,

Though matter the pure essence thralled.

Thus born of Spring those trees repose,

Late verdant screens before my sight,

Their leafy honors to disclose,

Thrice Summer lent soft dews and light.

I knew that Time’s all withering hand,

Forever caters Death’s repast;

Like all frail things at his command

Decay had soon their bloom o’erpast.

Yet dreamed I not of scathing storm,

Casting its demon spell around;

Their emerald beauties to deform

With rugged Desolation’s wound.

And shall their stems be leafless ever?

’Neath earthly clogs their roots too perish?

Ah no! the parent clay will never

Detain them while there’s life to cherish.

Sweet influences again shall rise,

Celestial urns once more bestow

The purest streams that e’er baptize

The Spring’s enchanting embryo.

From transient Death their foliage freed,

Shall proudly tower to the skies;

Like spirit cast corruption’s seed,

And spring to Heaven in purer guise.

A random shaft from Cupid’s quiver,

Once stuck a famous barrister;

The lady was a cold deceiver,

Therefore his suit ne’er harassed her.

But during a long evening session,

When he to Hymen’s bonds alluded;

She only laughed at his confession

And said the thought must be precluded.

The Muses with the Graces joined,

A lovely jury soon composed;

To try the felon who purloined

Hearts that no flaw had e’er disclosed.

Deeper in crime her soul to steep,

(As urged by the Solicitor;)

This modern Macbeth murdered sleep,

When to his eyes a visiter.

To court subpœna’d the coquette

Was rashly guilty of misprison;

Her judges at defiance set,

And boldly plead without permission.

Try me for larcenies in Love?

The law of Nature learn to read;

Woman’s prerogative ’twill prove,

And not a felon’s flagrant deed.

If actionable such offence,

Ye Nine consulting justice strict,

Who steal with Fiction’s keys each sense,

I can of pilfering convict.

Not for myself but sex I plead,

Prescriptive right of breaking chains;

Once from this privilege recede,

And not a wreck of power remains.

What penalty must I endure

In this case of attachment?

Yon plaintiff-lawyer may procure,

Of writs a whole detachment:

This form he feigns to love so well,

May even now incarcerate;

I’ll find new suitors in my cell,

Fearless your verdict I await.

Not guilty! from the Graces burst,

When the appeal was ended;

But soon the sentence was reversed,

Nor mercy recommended.

At once the Muses seized their lyres,

Untwisted all the silver strings;

And bound the culprit with their wires,

Who still in bondage smiles and sings.

That every nation in some art excels,

A travelling sage (the reverend Sherlock) tells.

In frauds political, and stuffs of gold,

The French o’er all pre-eminence may hold.

Germans for water landscapes;—and for lace

None with a Flemish hand can e’er keep pace:

For pious fabrications, what man vies

With him that’s born beneath Italian skies?

Or maccaroni, with such skill prepare,

Orices, Anchorites can scarce forbear!

But oh, the marvel! that Mynheer alone

Should sit supreme on Flora’s verdant throne.

So jealous too, this prince of the parterre,

Of competition in his favorite sphere,

This passion e’en o’’ avarice will prevail,

As Fame reports in this authentic tale:

A florist once of that phlegmatic race,

With whom plants, pipes and pelf find equal grace,

A tulip raised—Titania might have chosen

For rest or revelry—to feast or dose in.

So rare its beauty, and so rich its dye,

It seemed a gem or wingless butterfly.

It chanced that one who listened to the boast,

That the whole universe by art or cost

Could not produce so exquisite a flower,

Replied—I saw one in Vanzimmer’s bower.

By this intelligence to frenzy wrought—

Panting, his rival botanist he sought,

Revealed his embassy, beheld the prize,

And with a treasure, fit for royal eyes,

The golden chalice of the sun obtained;

Then in a transport wild and unrestrained,

To earth the beautiful compeer he hurled,

Tho’ dew like suppliant tears the cup impearled,

And as he crushed the petals in their pride,

Exulting said—now in the world beside

No man will dare avow there blooms a flower,

Fair as the Tulip in my summer bower.

Thou flattering title page from Fortune’s book,

Delusive fragment from her folio shook,

Through folly’s optics was thy type explored,

And fancy’s numbers, thus for thine abjured.

Ideal wealth, assuming the loose rein,

Banished the sterling coinage of the brain?

Before the golden fabrics it unreared,

Celebrity’s enchantment disappeared.

Various delights upon my senses prest,

And my lorn being a new charm confest,

Affection blossomed with a torrid speed,

And lost the semblance of a broken reed.

Hearts that had shrunk from penury’s deep probe,

Rents that were found in friendship’s flimsy robe,

Alike within the sordid maze concealed,

Nought of their hollowness to me revealed:

Why didst thou from thy fatal covert issue,

To break imagination’s brilliant tissue?

Was not the world a blank without thy aid,

To sever at a stroke her glittering thread?

Wo! to the worshipper who bends to thee,

Frail symbol of the fool’s idolatry!

No more compunction Juggernaut would feel,

Than thou to crush thy votary ’neath the Wheel.

Fame, Water and Fire, once travelled together,

And after discussing the modes and the weather,

A point of importance and interest debated:

Which was if by chance they became separated,

How each might the other again recognize,

As they so often varied their aspect and guise.

The daughter of Vesta with fervor exclaimed,

By my blue vapour-wreath I may soon be reclaimed.

A vigil I hold on the turbulent tide,

Where my ruby star sparkles the seaman to guide,

And when the earth trembles and man is dismayed,

Ye may know that in regions volcanic I’ve played.

Or failing to track me by tokens like these,

Seek the caloric nymph amid heart-broken trees.

Gray relics on Winter’s red shrine testify

That my luminous spirit has lately past by.

Hydrogena declared she would find it a toil,

For that Fire compelled her fore’er to recoil,

But that Nature delighted so much in her graces,

Her loveliest lineaments bore her light traces.

By Neptune’s regalia her power denoting,

By the dew-pearls around infant flowers e’er floating,

By the crescent of spray on the cataract’s brow,

A tribute the rock-stricken Naiads bestow,

By the brooklet, the rill, and the torrent’s bold flight,

The prints ye will find of the lost water-sprite.

And if a fresh clue to her presence ye seek,

It is brightly ensphered upon Beauty’s soft cheek.

But why is Fame mute whom they call trumpet tongued,

Or is she by that strong appellation wronged?

Should accident part us, then faltered Renown,

By marks most infallible ye may be known.

Alas! such advantage can ne’er be my boast,

For who can retrieve Reputation once lost?