Poems in Early Canadian Newspapers

 

All material copyright © Canadian Poetry Press.
 

 Montreal Vindicator

1829

 

 

December

 





December 1, 1829. Volume 2, No. 43.


Stanzas from the Italian
Love through a crowd of guards one day,
Gaily pressed to the bower of beauty;
Reason and Prudence he charmed away,
And cast a veil o’er the eyes of Duty;
But one potent rival still remained,                                                            5
More firm, more watchful than all beside;
And when Love had a glance from Beauty gained,
She was quickly checked by the frown of Pride.

Love with a smile his arrows hurled,
Pride scowling bade her to surrender;                                                    10
Love talked of a sweet and sunny world,
And Pride of a world of state and splendour;
At length Love wove a rosy band,
And woo’d the maid to its flowery fold,
While Pride by his side, in stern command,                                             15
Held a brilliant chain of burnished gold.

Beauty in praise of Love’s roses spoke,
But Pride waved his chain in the sun’s bright ray,
She bent her neck to the glittering yoke,
And Love spread his wings, and flew away,                                           20
Now she wildly strove her chain to sever,
She called him back, she wept, she sighed,
But all in vain—Love has fled for ever,
And she pines in the tyrant grasp of Pride!
                                                                    M. A.

December 1, 1829. Volume 2, No. 43.

 

Spirit that breathest through my lattice, thou
   That cool’st the twilight of the sultry day;
Gratefully blows the freshness round my brow
   Thou hast been out upon the deep at play,
Riding all day the wild blue waves till now,                                               5
   Roughening their crests, and scattering high their spray,
And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee
To the scorched land thou wanderer of the sea!

Nor I alone—a thousand bosoms round
   In hale thee in the fulness of delight;                                                    10
And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound
   Livelier, as coming of the wind of night;
And languishing to hear thy grateful sound,
   Lies the vast Island stretched beyond the sight,
Go forth into the gathering shade—go forth,                                           15
God’s blessing, breathing upon the fainting earth!

On rock the little wood one in the nest,
   Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse
The wild old wood from his majestic rest—
   Summoning from the innumerable boughs,                                           20
The strange deep harmonies that haunt his breast:
   Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows
The shutting flower, and darking waters pass;
Twix’t the o’ershadowing branches and the grass.

The faint old man shall lean his silver head                                              25
   To feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child asleep,
And dry the moistened curls that overspread
   His temples, while his breathing grows more deep;
And they who stand about the sick man’s bed.
   Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep,                                                30
And softly part his curtains to allow
Thy visit, grateful to his brow.

Go, but the circle of eternal change
   That is the life of nature shall restore
With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range,                                  35
   Thee to thy birth-place of the deep once more;
Sweet odors in the sea-air, sweet and strange,
   Shall tell the home sick mariner of the shore;
And listening to thy murmur, he shall deem
He hears the rustling leaf, and running stream.                                        40

December 1, 1829. Volume 2, No. 43.

 

From Miss Landon's New Volume of Poetry
"O no, sweet lady, not to thee
   That set and chilling tone,
By which the feelings on themselves
   So utterly are thrown:
For mine has sprung upon my lips.                                                           5
   Impatient to express
The handing charm of thy sweet voice
   And gentle loveliness.
A very fairy queen thou art,
Whose only spells are on the heart.                                                        10

The garden it has many a flower,
   But only one for thee—
The early graced of Grecian song,
   The fragrant myrtle tree;
For it doth speak of happy love,                                                            15
   The delicate, the true,
If its pearl buds are fair like thee,
   They seem as fragile too;
Likeness, not omens; for love’s power
Will watch his own most precious flower.                                               20

Thou art not of that wilder race
   Upon the mountain side,
Able alike the summer sun
   And winter blast to bide;
But thou art of that gentle growth                                                           25
   Which asks some loving eye
To keep it in sweet guardianship,
   Or it must droop and die;
Requiring equal love and care,
Even more delicate than fair.                                                                  30

I cannot paint to thee the charm
   Which thou hast wrought on me;
Thy laugh, so like the wild bird’s song
   In the first bloom-touch’d tree.
You spoke of lovely Italy,                                                                      35
   And of its thousand flowers;
Your lips had caught the music breath
   Admid its summer bow’rs.
And can it be a form like thine
Has braved the stormy Appennine?                                                       40

I’m standing now with one white rose
   Where silver waters glide:
I’ve flung that white rose on the stream,—
   How light it breasts the tide!
The clear waves seem as if they loved                                                    45
   So beautiful a thing;
And fondly to the scented leaves
   The laughing sunbeams cling.
A summer voyage—fairy freight,—
And such, sweet lady, be thy fate!"                                                        50

December 1, 1829. Volume 2, No. 43.



By Francis Quables

Non omne quod hic micat surum est.
False world, thou ly’st: thou canst not lend
               The least delight:
Thy favors cannot gain a friend.
               They are so slight:
Thy morning pleasures make an end                                                         5
               To please at night:
Few are the wants that thou supply’st;
And yet thou vaunt’st, and yet thou vy’st
With Heaven; fond earth thou boast’st, false world thou ly’st.

Thy babbling tongue tells golden tales                                                     10
               Of endless treasure;
Thy bounty offers easy sales
               Of lasting pleasure;
Thou ask’st the conscience what she ails
               And swear’st to ease her:                                                       15
There’s none can want where thou supply’st,
There’s none can give where thou deny’st
Alas! fond world thou boast’st, false world thou ly’st.

What well advised ear regards
               What earth can say?                                                               20
Thy words are gold, but thy rewards
               Are painted clay:
Thy cunning can but pack the cards
               Thou cast play:
Thy game at weak’st, still thou by’st                                                      25
If seen, and then revy’d, deny’st;
Thou art not what thou seem’st; false world, thou ly’st.

Thy tinsel bosom seems a mint
               Of new coin’d treasure;
A paradise that has no stint                                                                    30
               No change, no measure;
A painted cask, but nothing in’t,
               Nor wealth, nor pleasure:
Vain earth! that falsely thus comply’st,
With man; vain man, that thou rely’st                                                      35
On earth, vain man, thou boast’st; vain earth, thou ly’st.

What mean dull souls, in this high measure
               To haberdash
In earth’s base wares, whose greatest treasure
               Is dross and trash?                                                                 40
The height of whose enchanting pleasure
               Is but a flash?
Are these the goods that thou supply’st
Us mortals with? Are these the highest?
Can these bring cordial peace? False world, thou ly’st.                           45

December 4, 1829. Volume 2, No. 44.



The Songs of our Fathers

————Sing aloud
Old songs, the precious Music of the Heart.
                              Wordsworth
Sing then upon the sunny hills,
   When days are long and bright,
And the blue gleam of shining rills
   Is loveliest to the sight!
Sing them along the misty moor,                                                               5
   Where ancient hunters rov’d,
And swell them through the torrent’s roar,
   The songs our fathers lov’d.

The songs their souls rejoiced to hear,
   When harps were in the hall,                                                               10
And each proud note made lance and spear
   Thrill on the banner’d wall;
The songs that through our vallies green,
   Sent on from age to age,
Like his own river’s voice, have been                                                     15
   The peasant’s heritage.

The reaper sings them when the vale
   Is fill’d will plumy sheaves;
The woodman by starlight pale,
   Cheered homeward through the leaves;                                               20
And unto them the glancing oars
   A joyous measure keep,
Where the dark rocks that crest our shore
   Dash back the foaming deep.

So let it be! a light they shed                                                                  25
   O’er each old fount and grove;
A memory of the gentle dead,
   A lingering spell of love.
Murmuring the names of mighty men,
   They bid our streams roll on,                                                               30
And link high thoughts to every glen
   Where valiant deeds were done,

Teach them your children round the hearth,
   When evening fires burn clear;
And in the fields of harvest mirth,                                                           35
   And on the hills of deer;
So shall each unforgotten world,
   When far those lov’d ones roam,
Call back the hearts which once it stirred
   To childhood’s holy home.                                                                  40

The green woods of their native land
   Shall whisper in the strain,
The voices of their household band,
   Shall breathe their names again
The heathery heights in vision rise                                                           45
   Where, like the stag, they rov’d—
Sing to your sons those melodies
The songs your fathers lov’d.

December 4, 1829. Volume 2, No. 44.



From the Boston Statesman.

The Pirate’s Farewell
Thou glorious Sun! farewell, farewell,—
   Thou’lst shine no more for me;
The dreary grave where I must dwell,
   Was never cheered by thee!

Farewell ye clouds of changeful light,                                                        5
   That onward swiftly flee,
Like wings which Commerce in her flight
   Spreads o’er the foaming sea!

For me those sails shall swell no more,
   O’er the thund’rings of the wave—                                                     10
I must die a felon’s death on shore,
   And sleep in a landman’s grave.

I hate to mark the rising day,
   Through one dull window shine.
And see the sun’s too partial ray                                                            15
   Forever on yon pine!

The tideless calm that round me reigns,
   Is poison to my soul,
I feel its torpor chill my veins,
   And life’s full spring controul.                                                              20

I cannot live enslaved, enthralled,
   And see the eagle wild;
The smother’d breath of cities walled
   Is not for Freedom’s child.

So much my spirit spurns the shroud                                                       25
   My foes have made for me,
I long to smile upon the crowd
   Around my gallows tree.

December 4, 1829. Volume 2, No. 44.



   There is a feeling and pathos in the following lines that denote a mind deeply imbued with poetry— They will be read with pleasure.



(From the Mirror.)

Forgetfulness
We parted—friendship’s dream had cast
   Deep interest o’er the brief farewell,
And left upon the shadowy past,
   Full many a thought on which to dwell
Such thoughts as come in early youth,                                                       5
   And live in fellowship with hope;
Robed in the brilliant hues of truth,
   Unfitted with the world to cope.

We parted—he went o’er the sea,
   And deeper solitude was mine;                                                            10
Yet there remained in memory,
   For feeling, still a sacred shrine.
And thought and hope were offered up
   Till their ethereal essence fled,
And disappointment, from the cup,                                                         15
   Its dark libations poured, instead.

We parted—’twas on idle dream
   That time we e’er should meet again;
For who that knew man’s heart, would deem
   That it could long unchanged remain.                                                   20
He sought a foreign clime, and learned
   Another language, which expressed
To strangers the rich thoughts that burned
   With unquenched power within his breast.

And so he better loved to speak                                                             25
   In those new accents than his own;
His native tongue seemed old and weak,
   To breathe the wakened passion’s tone.
He wandered far, and lingered long.
   And drank so deep of Lethe’s stream,                                                 30
That each new feeling grew more strong,
   And all the past was like a dream.

We met—a few glad words were spoken,
   A few kind glances were exchanged;
But friendship’s first romance was broken,                                             35
   For his had been from me estranged.
I felt it all—we met no more—
   My heart was true, but it was proud;
Life’s early confidence was o’er,
   And hope had set beneath a cloud.                                                      40

We met no more—for neither sought
   To reunite the severed chain
Of social intercourse; for nought
   Could join its parted links again.
Too much of the wide world had been                                                    45
   Between us for too long a time;
And he had looked on many a scene,
   The beautiful end the sublime.

And he had themes on which to dwell,
   And memories that were not mine,                                                      50
Which formed a separating spell,
   And drew a mystic boundary line.
His thoughts were wanderers—and the thing
   Which brought back friendship’s joys to me
To him were but the spirit’s wings                                                          55
   Which bore him o’er the distant sea.

For he had seen the evening star
   Glancing its rays o’er ocean’s waves,
And marked the moonbeams from afar
   Lightening the Grecian heroes’ graves.                                                 60
And he had gazed on trees and flowers
   Beneath Italia’s sunny skies,
And listened, in fair ladies’ bowers,
   To genius’ words and beauty’s sighs.

His steps had echoed through the halls                                                    65
   Of grandeur, long left desolate;
And he had climbed the crumbling walls,
   Or op’d perforce the Lingeless flate;
And mused o’er many an ancient pile,
   In ruin still magnificent.                                                                        70
Whose histories could the hours beguile
   With dreams, before to fancy lent.

Such recollections come to him,
   With moon, and stars, and summer flowers,
To me they bring the shadows dim                                                         75
   Of early of and happier hours.
I would those shadows darker fell—
   For life, with its best powers to bless,
Has but few memories loved as well,
   Or welcome as forgetfulness.                                                            80
                                                            ESTELLE

December 8, 1829. Volume 2, No. 45.



For the Boston Statesman.

Love Unchangeable

Yes! still I love her—Time who sets
   His signet on my brow.
And dims my sunken eye, forgets,
   The heart he could not bow!—
Whose love, that cannot perish, grows                                                     5
For one, alas! that little knows
   How love may sometimes last,
Like sunshine wasting in the skies,
   When clouds are overcast.

The dew-drop hanging o’er the rose.*                                                   10
   Within its robe of light,
Can never touch a leaf that grows,
   Though seeming, to the sight!
And yet it still will linger there,
Like hopeless love without despair,                                                        15
   A snow-drop in the sun;
A moment finely exquisite,
   Alas! but only one.

I would not have thy married heart
   Think momently of me;                                                                       20
Nor would I tear the cords apart,
   That bind me so to thee;
No! while my thoughts seem pure and mild,
Like dew-drops o’er the roses wild,
   I would not have thee know                                                                25
The stream that seems to thee so still,
   Has such a tide below.

Enough, that in delicious dreams,
   I see thee and forget—
Enough, that when the morning beams.                                                   30
   I feel my eye-lids wet;
Yet, could I hope, when Time shall fall
   The darkness, for creation’s pall,
   To meet thee—and to love,—
I would not shrink from aught below,                                                     35
   Or ask for more above.

* It is a fact, perhaps not well known, that the dew floats on the atmosphere of the flower, without touching it.

December 8, 1829. Volume 2, No. 45.



(From the New-York Commercial Advertiser.)

Autumn Thoughts
I have look’d o’er life’s withered years,
   With shadowed brain and pensive eye;
A changeful scene of smiles and tears,
   Like April’s fair capricious sky;
With memory’s chastened light outspread,                                                5
   Rendering the shadows deeper still,
Which clung around my hours of dread,
   My days of darkness and of ill.

Firstly, I turned to youth—a glow,
   A sunbeam upon Being’s wave:                                                           10
Oh, could the manly spirit know,
   The joys that life’s young moments have!
There is no dream so pure as this,—
   No thought to make Time’s wing above
Float, with such deepening holiness,                                                       15
   Save a brief spell—and that is Love!

Then sought I Pleasure’s wasted bower,
   Where once my step, delighted, ranged:
Sad tones replied—"Lost is her hour:
   The leaves are sere—the scene is changed!                                         20
While, with dull light above it thrown,
   Methought I marked pale Lethe’s stream;
The early loved—the bright were gone,
   Like the brief pageant of a dream!

I sought for Hope: her smile had pour’d,                                                 25
   A spring-like spell my heart around;
Within my soul its gleams were stored,
   Painting with bliss the stream—the ground:
Each dancing wave, and glen, and tree,
   Her blessed spirit sanctified;                                                                30
And to her syren melody,
   My over-gladdened heart replied.

I may not ask, as thronging back
   To my lone soul, these memories come,
Why the dim cloud o’er Pleasure’s track,                                               35
   Came, with its shadowing fold of gloom
I may not ask, why Love again,
   May never bless my lonely hours;
Or, o’er life’s dull and weary plain,
   Scatter its sunlight, and its flowers!                                                      40

I may not ask: but this I feel,
   That clouds have dimmed my brighter sky
That cankering cares have come to steal
   The light from manhood’s thoughtful eye:
Yet still I gaze, and feel as one,                                                              45
   Who, travelling marks a landscape passed,
Where streams the influence of the sun,
   While cloud and storm are round him cast!
                                                                       W. G. C.

December 11, 1829. Volume 2, No. 46.



Stanzas for Music
You told me once my smile had power
   To chase your cares away,
To shed o’er misery’s darkest hour
   The cheering gleam of day;
That I was all—your life—your light—                                                     5
   That, absent from my view,
You droop’d, as flowers at fall of night,
   And I believed it true.

You told me once my accents fell
   Like music on your ear,                                                                      10
That you were bound, as by a spell.
   If I were only near;
That every purpose of your heart
   From me its being drew
From me it never could depart,                                                              15
   And I believed it true.

You told me once, what memory loves
   With fond regret to trace,
While o’er past scenes it widely roves,
   Which times will ne’er efface?                                                             20
But nought repining thoughts avail,
   And vainly now I rue,
That you e’er told a flattering tale,
   And I believed it true.

December 11, 1829. Volume 2, No. 46.


Life's Voyage

By J.F. Hollings
The winds of Heaven are loosed on high,
   The storm hath left its home;
Awake to furious revelry,
   Wide heaves the ocean foam.
There is no moon, with trembling light,                                                     5
   To calm the troubled tide,
No star to meet our watchful sight,
   No beacon ray to guide.

Faint not, thou wandering mariner,
   Though night and wrath be there;                                                        10
And at thy prow the shore of Death,
   And at thy helm despair!
Amidst the howling tempest’s force,
   And threefold gloom of fear,
An eye beholds thine ownward course!—                                              15
An arm to aid is near.

The buffed storm then hush’d to sleep,
   Forth springs the morning ray.
And light the wanton breezes sweep,
   With music, on their way;                                                                   20
And rippling o’er its bed of gold,
   Majestic—boundless—free!
The unfathomable deep is roll’d,
   A light invested sea!

Now let the red wine circle fast,                                                             25
   And wreathe the cup with flowers;
A strain of thanks for danger past!
   A health to happier hours!
So shall our days in joy have birth,
   And cloudless speed along,                                                                30
Hail’d by the heart’s ascending mirth,
   And hymn’d to rest with song,

Awake, thou careless mariner!
   Heed not the faithless sky;
A deadlier power is on thy path,                                                            35
   A darker peril nigh,
O’er many a wreck those waters flow,
   And many a hidden tomb;
And that fair sea which smiles below
   But temp’st thee to thy doom!                                                            40

December 11, 1829. Volume 2, No. 46.


Lines to an Orphan

By Mrs. Hemans
Thou hast been reared too tenderly.
     Beloved to well and long,
Watched by too many a gentle eye:
     Now look on life—be strong!

Too quiet seemed thy joys for change,                                                     5
     To holy and too deep;
Bright clouds, through summer skies that range
     Seem oft times thus to sleep,—

To sleep in silvery stilness bound,
     As things that ne’er may melt;                                                           10
Yet gaze again—no trace is found
     To show thee where they dwelt.

This world has no more love to give
     Like that which thou hast known
Yet the heart breaks not—we survive                                                    15
     Our treasures—and bear on.

But oh! too beautiful and blest
     Thy home of youth hath been;
Where shall thy wing, poor bird! find rest,
     Shut out from that sweet scene?                                                        20

Kind voices from departed years
     Must haunt thee many a day;
Looks that will smite the source of tears
     Across the soul will play.

Friends—now the altered or the dead—                                                25
     And music that is gone,
A gladness o’er thy dreams will shed,
     And thou shalt wake alone.

Alone!—it is in that deep word
     That all thy sorrow lies:                                                                     30
How is the heart to courage stirred
     By smiles from kindred eyes.

And are these lost? and have I said,
     To ought like thee—be strong?
So bid the willow lift its head,                                                                 35
     And brave the tempests wrong!

Thou reed! o’er which the storm hath passed,
     Thou, shaken with the wind,
On one, one friend, thy weakness cast,
     There is but one to bind.                                                                   40

December 11, 1829. Volume 2, No. 46.



Charade

By Mr. Praed
He talked of daggers and of darts,
   Of passions and of pains,
Of weeping eyes and wounded hearts,
   Of kisses and of chains;
He said, though love was kin to grief,                                                       5
   He was not born to grieve;
He said, though many rued belief.
   She safely might believe;
But still the lady shook her head,
   And swore, by yea and nay,                                                                10
My whole was all that he had said,
   And all that he could say.

He said, my first—whose silent car
   Was slowly wandering by,
Veiled in a vapour faint and far                                                               15
   Through the unfathomed sky,—
Was like the smile whose rosy light
   Across her young lips passed,
Yet oh! it was not half so bright,
   It changed not half so fast;                                                                   20
But still the lady shook her head,
   And swore, by yea and nay,
My whole was all that he had said,
   And all that he could say.

And then he set a cypress wreath                                                           25
   Upon his raven hair,
And drew his rapier from its sheath,
   Which made the lady stare;
And said, his life-blood’s purple flow
   My second there should dim,                                                              30
If she he loved and worshipped so
   Would only weep for him;
But still the lady shook her head,
   And swore, by yea and nay,
My whole was all that he had said,                                                         35
And all that he could say.

December 15, 1829. Volume 2, No. 47.



   The following beautiful lines, written for the TOMB of the celebrated COOKE, we extract from the Irish Shield. It affords us great pleasure to embellish our columns with this chaste and classic effusion from the pen of our Countryman Mr. Adam Kidd. The subject indeed, was such as merited the garland strewn o’er the tomb of departed genius.—[Editor.]

 

A Fugitive Garland

To be Strewn on the Strange Grave of George F. Cooke, The ‘Irish Roscius.’

 

   For this elegant sepulchral garland with which kindred genius would decorate the monument, that the generous and noble minded monarch of English tragedy, KEAN, erected to the memory of our immortal countryman, we have to express our grateful acknowledgements to ADAM KIDD, ESQ. of Quebec.—Irish Shield.

 

Non ego te meis Chartis inornatum silebo,
Tutve tuos putiar honores impune, carpere lividas obliviones,
                                                       —HORACE

Here have I come, with reverential tread,
   O’er many a grave that throngs this sacred spot,
To seek thy Tomb, among the unknown dead,
   Who sleep around—unmourned—and long forgot,

And there’s a feeling—such as hearts like mine,                                        5
   Alone may feel—comes trembling through my frame,
While now I trace the Demon-defac’d line
   That bears, OH! COOKE! thy much insulted name!

But though some impious hand has dared to touch
   The marble block thy FRIEND* erected here—                                    10
There is a Pyramid to thee—and such
   As pale faced envy never can come near.

That Pyramid is FAME’S—and her great hand
   Displays the banner GENIUS o’er thee hung
When in obedience to her high command.                                              15
   Nations were captives to thy magic tongue!

Yet, I’ve a hope, that ere a distant day,
   Some spirit prompted by indulgent heaven,
Will safely to that Isle, thy bones convey
   Where first the mountain-breeze of life was given.                                20

And this exotic plant†—this lonely one—
   Sole verdure, budding in this naked mound,
I will translate—that e’en when I am gone
   It may, to deck thy future grave, be found.

Where it will flourish long in honoured rest—                                          25
   No foot to bruise, or soil its tender frame—
Nor folded reptile slumber on its breast,
   But freshly bloom with COOKE’S undying name!

QUEBEC, 1829.

* vide Biography of George Frederick Cooke, in page 331 of The Irish Shield.

† The only verdure I could find on the hallowed grave of Cooke, was one solitary Shamrock, which seemed to have taken shelter, close by the corner of the monument, as the faithful representative of the tragedian’s country. Unwilling, therefore, that it should be exposed to such wreck and abuse as some foul hands have already inflicted on the monument. I have deprived St. Paul of New-York, of this respected emblem of St. Patrick, by conveying it to my own temporary abode, and shall finally plant it on the green summit of the flowery mantled Slisvegallin, in the county of Derry, where it may once more, imbibe the dew of a friendlier sky, and spread forth its little blossom to the fairy breezes of its native mountains.

December 15, 1829. Volume 2, No. 47.



From the Louisiana Advertiser.

A Tribute to the Memory of Korner
Peace, peace to the hero, whose victor sword gleaming,
   Sprung forth from its sheath at the signal of war,
He left his life’s blood in the battle plain streaming,
   For one dying glance of fair freedom’s bright star,
Peace, peace to the minstrel whose soul stirring numbers,                         5
   Fell like victory’s voice on the ear of the brave.
Whose martial strains rous’d e’en the slave from his slumbers,
   And made him exult in a freeman’s blest grave.

Thy sword now hangs useless, while rust round it gathers,
   No more shalt thou wield it for freedom & truth,                                 10
Thy lyre is now mute in the land of my fathers,
   And mute toot he voice of the lov’d warrior youth,
Yet that lyre and that voice in the trial hour of danger,
   Shall summon the warrior once more to the fray;
And that sword gleam again as it welcomes the stranger,                        15
   And show with gaunt havoc the tyrant’s red way.

Thou sleep’st, by the branches of freedom’s tree shaded.
   Long long may it wave o’er thine own father land!
And perish thy kindred ere scorned and degraded,
   It withers beneath the oppressor’s stern hand.                                     20
The life blood of spirits, that scorn to yield willing,
   Fair freedom’s bright offering, gave birth to that tree,
And ere ’neath its shadow on a foe rears its dwelling,
   Thy country shall mix its dust with the free.

How oft when thy deeds grace the tales of the hoary,                             25
   Shall valour’s rough features be dewed with a tear
How oft shall the youth, as he lists to the story,
   In fancy’s, mid hosts, wield the gore crimsoned spear,
And when by the tomb, youth & age are reclining,
   How sweet shall the requiem sound o’er the brave,                             30
How bright shall the chaplet of flowers be entwining
   The sword and the lyre that hang o’er the grave.

Then peace to the dead, yet when Germany trembles
   To hear thro’ her valleys war’s rude blast resound
When each hamlet in arms at the stern call assembles,                            35
   And liberty marshals her sons at the sound
Thy sword steeped in slaughter, shall hang on the flying,
   Thine arm at the tyrant shall aim the dread blow,
Thy spirit shall warm in the breast of the dying,
   ’Tis thus that thy kinsman will welcome the foe.                                   40
                                                        Emilius

December 18, 1829. Volume 2, No. 48.



(From the Courier and Enquirer.)

The Grecian Mother’s Farewell

They knelt where proud Bestia’ shore,
   Smiles queen like on the slumbering deep,
Crown’d with the thousand names of yore,
   The memories in her graves that sleep.

They knelt. The broad, clear moonlight play’d,                                         5
   On hallow’d fount and mouldering fane;
As if some long departed shade,
   Triumphant breathed these scenes again!

Pale, proud, yet tender in its pride,
   That mother’s brow was raised above,                                               10
The wild, free spirit’s burning tide,
   Veiled by a parent’s deathless love.

One tear—and as a shadow’d spell,
   The soul flung off grief’s writhing chain,
And Sybil like, that proud farewell                                                         15
   Blest its deep murmurings with the main.

Boy! by the laureled shades of old, that now around us breathe
By the eternal stars that gem thy country’s radiant wreath,
By every cherish’d hope of life—by ev’ry bright dream flown—
"Bow not the heart, bend not the knee," at Islam’s crescent throne!        20
The night bird’s darken’d wing, yet shades affection’s hallow’d tomb.
And hark she breathes the low, wild dirge, for manhood’s hopeless doom
Doth not that requiem nerve thee on, to dare the battle’s flame,
To hurt thy country’s bonds and win one glorious leaf from fame?
Farewell my last! though victory droop, heed not the spoiler’s might,      25
Be thou a star amid the gloom, that veils thy country’s light:
And where the crescent standard flings o’er tow’r and dome her gleam,
There like the noon day’s sun shine forth, a burning radiant beam!
Farewell—be home’s sweet memory shrin’d, within thine "heart of hearts"
A lingering charm—a fadeless flower—when ev’ry flower departs—     30
And in thy dreams think oft of her, who like yon waveless deep,
Hath sealed from mortal eye the storms that in her bosom sleep,
Not with the Spartan mother’s pride, I’ve crowned thee for the field,
This heart would bend to sorrow’s power, wert thou "borne on thy shield;"
My prayer soars to the Mighty One, "who guides the tempest’s sweep,"  35
That in the "hollow of his hand," thy path he’ll ever keep
Yet shouldst thou fill my only light, in manhood’s opening bloom,
Fear not; "earth’s loved" shall yet rejoice in realms beyond the tomb.

December 18, 1829.  Volume 2, No. 48.



From the New-York Mirror.

Joy and Grief
ONE summer morn, when dewy flowers
   Displayed their fairest smile,
Young Joy forsook his happy bowers
   To frolic forth awhile:
He hied him to a silvery stream,                                                               5
   That rippled down the glade,
And there along its verdant brim
   His thoughtless gambols played.

High o’er his head the willow flung
   Its gold stems to the air,                                                                     10
While many a jocund warbler sung
   His sweet-toned matin there.
He smiled to list the bees’ soft hum,
   Far from the din of men,
And the wild pheasant’s distant drum                                                     15
   Swell echoing through the glen.

And oft his restless form he threw
   Sheer in the dancing tide,
To pluck wild water flowers that grew
   Along the streamlet’s side:                                                                  20
Soon on his fair unclouded brow
   A lovely wreath appears,
Pure as the pearls of winter’s snow,
   And gemmed with night’s rich tears.

Thus played he many a sunny hour,                                                        25
   With bosom glad and free,
Till, tired, he sought a neighbouring bower,
   And slumbered dreamily
Deep from her cypress-circled cell,
   Grief spied the form of Joy,                                                                30
And softly stealing down the dell,
   Knelt by the sleeping boy.

Aside she flung his locks of gold,
   And gazed with deepening sigh,
Till from her cheek a tear-drop rolled,                                                   35
   And dewed his half-closed eyes
He woke and sought with ready hand
   To wipe the tear away
But ah! no power at his command,
   Could dry that cankering spray.                                                          40

Pensive he left the lone recess,
   And his bright home regained,
Where still mid all his sportiveness
   That hapless guest remained:
And thus where’er his form we seek,                                                     45
   In scenes beneath the sky,
We find a smile upon his cheek,
   A tear-drop in his eye!
                                                        PROTEUS

December 18, 1829. Volume 2, No. 48.



From the Winter’s Wreath for 1830.

The Voice of the Waves

By Mrs. Hemans
  How perfect was the calm!—it seemed to sleep,
   No mood which Season takes away, or brings,
   I could have fancied that the mighty Deep
   Was even the gentlest of all gentle things.

   But welcome Fortitude and patient cheer.
   And frequent sights of what is to be borne.
                                                 Wordsworth.

Answer, ye chiming Waves,
   That now in sunshine sweep!
Speak to me from thy hidden graves,
   Voice of the solemn Deep!

Hath man’s lone spirit here                                                                      5
   With storms in battle striven?
Where all is now so calmly clear,
   Hath anguish cried to Heaven?

Then the Sea’s voice arose
   Like an earthquake’s under-tone,                                                       10
"Mortal! the strife of human woes
   When hath not Nature known!

Here to the quivering mast
   Despair hath widely clung,
The shriek upon the wind hath past,                                                       15
   The midnight sky hath rung.

"And the youthful and the brave,
   With their beauty and renown,
To the hollow chambers of the wave
   In darkness have gone down.                                                             20

"They are vanished from this place—
   Let their homes and hearths make moan!
But the rolling waters keep no trace
   Of pang and conflict gone."

Alas! thou haughty deep!                                                                       25
   The strong, the sounding far!
My heart before thee dies—I weep
   To think on what we are!

To think that so we pass,
   High hope, and thought, and mind,                                                      30
Even as the breath stain from the glass,
   Leaving no sign behind!

Saw’st thou nought else, thou Main?
   Thou and the midnight sky?
Nought, save the struggle brief and vain,                                                35
   The parting agony,

And the Sea’s voice replied,
   "Here noble things have been!
Power with the valiant when they died,
   To sanctify the scene:                                                                         40

"Courage, in fragile form,
   Faith trusting in the last,
Prayer, breathing heavenwards thro’ the storm
   But all alike have passed!"

Sound on, thou haughty Sea!                                                                 45
   These have not passed in vain;
My soul awakes, my hope springs free
   On victor wings again.

Thou from thine empire driven,
   May’st vanish with the powers!                                                          50
But, by the hearts that here have striven,
   A loftier doom is ours!

December 18, 1829. Volume 2, No. 48.


Birds

In the same volume there is a peculiar example of Montgomery’s composition, bearing this title, and embracing nearly the whole list of English birds. A few extracts will show its pretty character.

     The Cuckoo

Why art thou always welcome, lonely bird?
—The heart grows young again when I am heard;
Nor in my double note the magic lies,
But in the fields and woods, the streams and skies.

     The Wren

Wren, can’st thou squeeze into a hole so small?                                        5
—Aye, with mine young ones too, and room for all;
Go, compass sea and land, in search of bliss—
Find, if you can, a happier home than this.

     The Canary

Dost thou not languish for thy native land,
Madeira’s fragrant woods and billowy strand?                                       10
—My cage is fatherland enough for me:
Your parlour all the world—heaven, earth and sea.

     The Owl

Blue-eyed, strange-voiced, sharp-beak’d, ill-omen’d fowl,
What art thou?
          —What I ought to be—an Owl;                                                  15
But if I’m such a scarecrow in your eye,
You’re a much greater fright in mine—good bye.

     The Pheasant

Pheasant, forsake the country—come to town;
I’ll warrant thee a place beneath the crown.
—No, not to roost upon the throne, would I                                          20
Renounce the woods, the mountains, and the sky.

The Hawk

A life at every meal rapacious Hawk
Spare helpless innocence!
          —Troth—pleasant talk!
Yon sparrow snaps more lives up in a day,                                             25
Than in a twelvemonth I could take away.
But hark, most gentle censor, in your ear
A word, a whisper:—you—are you quite clear?
Creation’s groans, through ocean, earth, and sky,
Ascend from all that walk, and swim, and fly.                                         30

The Humming-Bird

Art thou a bird, or bee, or butterfly?
—Brethren! all three: a bird in shape am I;
A bee, collecting sweets from bloom to bloom:
A butterfly, in brilliancy of plume.

December 22, 1829. Volume 2, No. 49.



From the Boston Statesman.

An Honest Confession

     Some time ago,
I saw three fellows, clever hale and spunky,
     Taking a horn, you know;—
Sucking the monkey;—
Or whatsoe’er you call it when we blow;                                                 5
     There’s nothing strange in drinking,
For all men drink;—
     Some till they blink,
But I’ve a way of thinking,
That more get corned than parsons dream of,                                         10
Who show long faces with their steam off.

     One pleasant day in June,
As I was struggling with a fallen head,
     My stomach out of tune,
Calling for something stronger far than mead,                                          15
A decent looking man
     Came shiverin’
Although his liver in-side were cooking man,
     And straight he posted to the bar
Where people go who thirsty are,                                                          20
     "I’ll take a glass of gin and water,
Because I’m cold."
Soon as the pence were told,
     In came another sweating like a porter,
     "I’ll take a glass of gin and water,                                                      25
     Because I’m hot;"
Now may I go to pot
     Thought I, if this is not a snorter;
Just then a rosy son of Bacchus
Who loved good drink like Horace Flaccus,                                           30
     Came like a rolling tun.
I’ll take a glass of gin and water;
     Come, quickly shove it;
For I am one,
     That dares to face the mid-day sun,                                                   35
And say I drink my grog because
     I LOVE IT.

December 22, 1829. Volume 2, No. 49.



Pounds, Shillings, and Pence

A New Sacred Melody

Auri sacra fames

Would you know what, in pious concerns,
   Most pleaseth a Churchman of sense,
Just ask my Lord Bishop of F—rns,
   And he’ll tell you, ‘Pounds, shillings and pence.’

Pounds, shillings, and pence, quoth the Bishop,                                        5
   Alone makes devotion intense;
And they, who a zealot would fish up,
   Must bait with Pounds, shillings, and pence.

What makes a High Priest of M—gae?
   What makes, (if it isn’t offence)                                                          10
Such a boring old scribbler of thee,
   My Lord Bishop?—Pounds, shillings, and pence.

Time was, when your Rev’rences came,
   To the stake, in religion’s defence;
But you’ve now a far pleasanter game                                                   15
   Where the stake is—Pounds, shillings, and pence.

And, if Heav’n could be paid down in rhino,
   (Like Danse’s pin money thence),
How gladly would persons whom I know,
   Take it out in—Pounds, shillings, and pence!                                       20

December 24, 1829. Volume 2, No. 50.



From the New York Mirror.

Thanksgiving

   The harvest which God thus gave to this pious people, caused them to set apart another day of solemn thanksgiving to the glorious hearer of prayers!—Mother’s Magnalia.
Choirs of the glad and free,
   Wake your high harps of praise!
Ring out the notes of jubilee,
   Your noblest pæans raise!
Dwellers of mountain steep,                                                                     5
   Beneath thee; be at rest,
And ye in teeming vales that sleep
   Pilow’d on plenty’s breast,
Lift the warm thanks of grateful hearts
To Him who every perfect gift imparts!                                                  10

Hail to the pilgrims’ day
   Of bright and happy dawn!
And thou, proud orb of cheering ray,
   Move in thy glory on.
Yet still in all thy course sublime                                                             15
   Above earth’s peopled bowers,
Thou shalt not mark a happier clime
Nor happier hearts than ours.

Look—not a foeman’s form
   Midst freedom’s host appears;                                                           20
Hark—not a note of battle’s storm
   Breaks on our listening ears:
Save that at times above the swells
   Of oceans’ sighing waves,
A deep end solemn murmur tells                                                            25
   Of Europe’s struggling slaves,
Where God’s own image, fashioned free,
Is towed by rank’s vain pageantry.

Here ignorance, of owlet sight,
   To her dark haunts is awed,                                                               30
As science from her spheres of light
   Darts her free beams abroad;
While genius at her bidding bends
   His influence proud and high,
And through his broad and burning lens                                                 35
   Pours them on every eye;
From the dim orb of waning years
To childhood laughing through its tears.

Here, as an angel bright and free,
   Religion walks abroad,                                                                       40
And fears no monarch’s stern decree,
   Thus shall thou worship God:
But in her own appointed way,
   And conscious chosen time,
Whether at rise or shut of day,                                                               45
   At week or Sabbath chime.
Whene’er devotion’s spirit calls,
   She bends the humble knee
Low in the temple’s marbled walls,
   Or ’neath the green-wood tree.                                                          50

Joy is o’er all our land,
   The fruited glade and slope,
Mellowed by summer’s radiant hand,
   Have filled the autumn cup:
While commerce from her treasured keels                                             55
   Presents her orient hoard,
And harvests of a thousand hills
   Crown the o’erflowing board!

Then wake your noblest strains,
   Choirs of the glad and free!                                                                60
Go up unto your hallowed fanes
   On this high jubilee:
Praise Him who led the pilgrim bark,
   With its men of holy worth,
Through the stormy deep, a second ark,                                                65
   With life for a second earth,
Yes, praise Him who bounteously
   Gave you this goodly clime,
Sealed by your fathers’ blood, to be
   Yours through all coming time;                                                            70
Praise him—the light, the life, the love
That guides, sustains, and woos all hearts above.
                                                                      PROTEUS

December 24, 1829. Volume 2, No. 50.


(From the Courier & Enquirer.)

To S. A. H.
Oh think of me in the evening hour
As thou sittest alone in thy fairy Bower;
When thou hearest the wild winds pass thee by,
And the autumn leaves around thee fly.

Oh think of me when the flowers of spring,                                              5
Around thy home fresh perfumes bring;
When the gentle notes of the warbling bird,
In thy native vales again are heard.

Oh think of me in the sportive dance,
When thy youthful friends around thee glance;                                       10
Then should thy thoughts in wandering stray,
Remember the friend that’s far away.

Oh think of me in thy hours of prayer,
As thou gatherest around thy altars there;
When thou bendeth on the knee,                                                           15
Breath forth one simple prayer for me.

Oh think of me when friends are gone,
And thou art left to weep alone;
When the joys of thy home are no longer there,
And thy heart is hushing in pale despair.                                                20

Oh think of me when I am dead,
And the wild flowers grow o’er my silent head;
Then pity the faults, and drop a tear,
O’er the grave of him no longer here.

December 29, 1829. Volume 2, No. 51.



The Departure of the Swallow

And is the swallow gone?
     Who beheld it?
     Which way sail’d it?
Farewell bade it none?

No mortal eye saw it go                                                                          5
     But who doth hear
     Its summers cheer
As it flitteth to and fro?

So the freed spirit flies?
     From the shrouding clay                                                                   10
     It steals away,
Like the swallow from the skies.

Whither?—wherefore doth it go?
     Tis all unknown:
     We feel alone                                                                                  15
That a void is left below.

 

 
  

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