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November 3, 1829. Volume
2, No. 35. |
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The Young Dreamer
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Fair
image of delight
Child of untroubled thought! whose virgin
breast
Rude in a wilderness, where soon the light
Which guides thy wanderings, will have sunk
to rest,
As summer’s sun goes down in chambers of the
west! 5
New
traveller in life’s vale
Yet a glad stranger to its countless fears;
Thy young cheek yet with sorrow is not pale;
Thou hast not brooded over wasted years,
Or bathed the faded dead with grief’s all hallowed
tears 10
As
yet thine eye is clear?
The light of hope smiles on that perfect
brow.
Like sunbeams, trembling in the atmospehere
When the far east is kindled with the glow
That bathes the Heavens in joy, while nature laughs
below. 15
The
past hath to thine eye
No shade of care, or image of regret;
Its hours have passed in glorious visions by
Where pleasures cup with purest gems was
set,
While from its brimming edge joy’s rose leaf lip was
wet. 20
How
eloquent is earth,
With its new treasures and its dreams to
thee!
A scene of boundless and unsullied mirth,
Filled with the spirits secret melody—
Coloured by early hopes and touched by early
glee. 25
The
future! not a cloud
Breaks on the prospect to thy fancy given;
But pleasant images, in beauty crowd
Like stars that glitter in the summer eves,
Whose trembling beams give way but to the morning
heaven. 30
The
bland and silver air
Hath all sweet voices for thy list’ning
ear;
The breeze that whispers in thy chesnut hair,
Hath gladness for thy heart—a music clear
Borne on its viewless wing through the blue
atmosphere 35
So
let it be! my heart
Is into rapture kindled as I stand
And gaze on that young face, which nature’s art
So cunningly hath fashioned—as thy hand
Rests on thy timid lip—dreamer on childhood’s
land; 40
Oh!
that they might remain!
That buoyant heart and that unshadowed brow,
That soft cheek, where the rose hath left a stain,
Like sunset’s crimson on a wreath of snow
An index of the heart, where pure thoughts come and
go 45
But
on each vernal wreath
Of thought, which charms thee with a
gorgeous spell,
Will come the darkness and the pall of death—
Age, with its sighs and pains unspeakable—
The friends that pass away—the sadness of
farewell! 50
Yes,
these will come, sweet one,
If life should lengthen and expand for thee;
Each little hour of bliss will soon be done—
Hope’s syren voice will lose its sympathy,
And blighted fruits will fall from pleasure’s blasted
tree.
55
Love,
o’er thy flowery way
Will steal in beauty and delight along:
Thou wilt be dazzled in his pinion’s ray,
’Twill touch thine eye with fire—thy lip
with song
Breaking its novel thrills the hearts fine chords
among. 60
And
fables thou wilt find
Love’s gentle fantasies and hopes to be:
Bright meteors in the ever restless mind—
Strains of sweet music o’er a heaving sea—
Gone, ere the heart grows rich, in their wild
melody; 65
And
unto kindred dust
Thou wilt behold the early loved go down;
Hearts which were linked with thine in friendly trust
O’er their still rest the curtained grave
will frown;
While grief’s sad blight will fall o’er pleasure’s
flower
crown.
70
Yet
if within thy soul
The thoughts which now he richly
treasured there,
May linger with thee as time’s surges roll,
Thou wilt escape the simcom of
despair,
And round thee still will glow the spirits balmy
air. 75
EVERARD
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November 6, 1829. Volume
2, No. 36. |
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Where should
the vows of youthful love be heard?
In thronghing halls of thoughtless revelry?
Where the wild heart, by music’s magic stirred,
Bounds in the mazy dance exultingly?
While torch and taper shed their radiance
free 5
On many a sparkling gem, high friendship’s
token?
Or in the chancel’s hallowing sanctity,
Should the full bosom’s guileless truth be
spoken?
Oh no! not there—but in the stilly grove,
Where nods the wild-flower by the
moss-fringed
spring, 10
While the pure stars bend listening from above,
And to the dews young zephyr spreads his
wing;
Where all is still, save night’s sweet pensive bird,
Where should the mutual vows of youthful
love be heard.
ARION
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November 6, 1829. Volume
2, No. 36. |
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From the N.Y. Mirror.
Pass on Relentless World
"Del anundo vil hullando lo bagaza."
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Pass
on relentless world,
With all thy empty pageantry and noise,
Pennon, and plume, and banner-sheet unfurled—
I
envy not thy joys:
For
thoughts that pierce the
brain, 5
On that dark brow are registered in guilt;
And thy poor heart is wrung with many a pain—
Smile,
maniac, as thou wilt.
Thou
of the eagle eye,
In the red chariot of conquest
drawn, 10
Cursed by the widow’s and the orphan’s sigh—
Pass
in thy triumph on;
Yet
known, in this high day
Of exultation and of victory,
There be, who sighing mark thy proud array— 15
Hero,
they pity thee.
Thou
of the noble born,
Altered or crowned, who careless look’st on me,
Pass on—I may forgive that glance of scorn,
But
never envy
thee: 20
For
though the gilded robe
Wraps thee in hues as bright as evening’s sky,
And thy proud sceptre awes the outspread globe,
Death
shall not pass thee by.
Fairest
and frailest
flower, 25
Beauty! that joyest in thy heavenly birth,
Ruling all spirits with a nameless power,
Pass
on, high queen of earth:
Yet
at no far-off day
Shall fade the glory of that seraph
form, 30
And on the richness of its honoured clay
Shall
feed the darkling worm.
And
thou, whose iron door
Was never opened to the sufferer’s cry,
Whose path to wealth was o’er the friendless
poor, 35
Untouched
by misery’s sigh—
With
all thy millions speed,
Heartless and haughty, in thy course along—
Justice hath yet in store the righteous meed
Of
thy unblushing
wrong. 40
Thou
too, that hop’st to send
Thy name throughout the future’s farthest years,
Reckless of influence and example,—and
The
hydras conscience rears—
Pass
on—albeit the
gloom 45
Of dim oblivion shall o’ershadow thee,
And voiceless as the never-whispering tomb,
Thy
memory shall be.
Traitor
to friendship’s trust!
Who fawning smiled through fortune’s sunny
day, 50
But when thy friend was stricken to the dust,
Turned
from his woes away,—
Pass
on, dishonoured one,
Thy deep’ning shame, thy baseness go with thee—
There are dark spots upon the glorious sun— 55
Could
earth then, be more free?
And
thou whose every thought,
Pondered the ruin of creation’s pride,
Woman, for whom the high in heart have fought,
For
whom the good have died— 60
Who
when her love was won,
Didst spurn it for the wanton and the wine—
Pass on—I may not speak thy malison,
For
vengeance is not mine.
But
ye—to whom
remain 65
Unsullied honour, and unswerving truth,
Faith, meekness, charity with her bright train—
Virtue’s
immortal youth—
Whose
love for human kind,
Like the pure heavens is boundless and serene— 70
Whose alms are like the ever-restless wind,
Refreshing,
yet unseen.
And
ye—o’er whom the call
Of wealth, rank, fame and glory has no sway,
Faithful, and just, and kind in hut or hall— 75
Oh,
pass not thus away!
For
sure it is unmeet
That ye, who form life’s beauty and its worth,
Mingling its bitter cup with many a sweet—
Should
ever pass from
earth! 80
ARION.
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November 10, 1829. Volume
2, No. 37. |
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The Spring Hunt
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The humour of Thomas Hood,
embellished with the practical skill of the no less humourous
Cruikshank, has furnished a diverting little volume with this
title. The tale is compared to John Gilpin, but differs
essentially from that favourite ballad in the style of the
narrative—being thickly studded with the peculiar fancies of
the author, displayed not less in the language employed than
in the ideas it is intended to convey.
"The Easter chase"
(says the preface) will soon be numbered with the pastimes of
past times: its dogs will have had their day, and its deer
will be fallow.—A few more seasons, and this City Common
Hunt will become uncommon. In proof of this melancholy
decadence, the ensuing epistle is inserted. It was penned by
an underling at the Wells, a person more accustomed to riding
than writing.
"Sir,—About the hunt. In
answer to your Innqueries, their has been a great falling off
laterally, so much so this year, that there nobody allmost.—We
did a mear nothing provisionally, hardly a Bottle extra, which
is a proof in Pint. In short, our Hunt may be sad to be in the
last Stag of a Decline. I am, sir, with respects from your
humservant, Bartholomew Rut."
To this we add such extracts as
we find room for to-day.
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John Huggins was
as bold a man
As trade did ever know,
A warehouse good he had, that stood,
Hard by the church of Bow.
There people bought Dutch cheeses
round, 5
And single Glo’ster flat;
And English butter in a lump,
And Irish in a pat.
Six days a-week beheld him stand,
His business next his
heart, 10
At counter with his apron tied
About his counter-part
The seventh, in a sluice-house bee,
He took his pipe and pot,
On Sundays, for eel-pictu, 15
A very noted spot.
Ah, blest if he had never gone
Beyond its rural shed!
One Easter-tide some evil guide
Put Epping in his
head. 20
Alas! there was no warning voice
To whisper in his ear,
Thou art a fool in leaving Cheap
To go and hunt the deer!
No thought he had of twisted
spine, 25
Or broken arms or legs;
Not chicken-hearted he, although
’Twas whispered of his eggs!
Ride out he would, and hunt he would,
Nor dreamt of ending
ill; 30
Mayhap with Dr. Ridout’s fee
And surgeon Hunter’s bill.
So he drew on his Sunday boots,
Of lustre superfine;
The liquid black they word that
day 35
Was Warren-ted to shine."
Our hero is mounted on a gallant gray, in the keep of
which he
goes
halves with a brother cit.
"A well-bred horse he was, I win
As he began to shew,
By quickly ‘rearing-up within
The way he ought to go.’ 40
But Huggins, like a wary man,
Was ne’er from saddle cast;
Resolved, by going very slow,
On sitting very fast."
He proceeds to Tottenham Cross, where a companion, who was to
have joined him, is found a defaulter.
"Whereas the man had changed his
mind 45
Meanwhile upon the case,
And meaning not to hunt at all,
Had gone to Enfield Chase.
For why? his spouse had made him vow
To let a game
alone, 50
Where folks that ride a bit of blood
May break a bit of bone.
Now be his wife a plague for life!
A coward sure is he:
Then Huggins turned his horse’s
head 55
And crossed the bridge of Lee.
Thence slowly on through Laytonstone,
Past many a Quaker’s box—
No friends to hunters after deer,
Though followers of a Fox. 60
And many a score behind—before—
The self-same route inclined,
And minded all to march one way,
Made one great march of mind."
The cortege of the various hunters is next amusingly
and accurately described, among which John—
"Paced on to Woodford
Wells, 65
Where many horsemen met;
And letting go the reins, of course,
Prepared for heavy wet."
Old Tom Roundling, the landlord of the Wells, is a very
clever portrait.
"‘Now welcome, lads,’ quoth he, ‘and prads
You’re all in glorious
luck; 70
Old Robin has a run to-day,
A noted forest buck.
Fair Mead’s the place, where Bob and Tom
In red already ride;
’Tis but a step, and on
horse 75
You soon may go a stride,’
So, off they scamper’d, man and horse,
As time and temper press’d;
But Huggins, hitching on a tree,
Branch’d off from all the
rest. 80
Howbeit he tumbled down in time
To join with Tom and Bob,
All in Fair Mead, which held that day
Its own fair meed of mob.
Idlers, to wit—no Guardians
some 85
Of tattlers in a squeeze;
Ramblers in heavy carts and vans,
Spectators up in trees.
Butchers on backs of butcher’s backs,
That shambled to and
fro; 90
Bakers intent upon a buck,
Neglectful of the dough!
Change Alley Bears to speculate,
As usual, for a fall;
And green and scarlet runners,
such 95
As never climb’s wall!
Twas strange to think what difference
A single creature made;
A single stag had caused a whole
Stag-nation in their
trade. 100
Now Huggins from his saddle rose,
And in the stirrups stood,
And lo! a little cart that came
Hard by a little wood.
In shape like half a hearse, though
not 105
For corpses in the least;
For this contained the deer alive,
And not the dear deceased!"
The deer alive being let out—
"Away he went, and many a score
Of riders did the
same, 110
On horse and ass—like high and low
And Jack pursuing game."
The hunt is up—
"Some lost their stirrups, some their whips
Some had no caps to shew;
But few, like Charles at Charing
Cross, 115
Rode on in status quo.
‘O dear! O dear!’ now might you hear,
‘I’ve surely broke a bone;’
‘My head is sore,’ with many more
Such speeches from the thrown. 120
Howbeit their wailings never moved
The wide satanic clan,
Who grinned, as once the devil grinn’d,
To see the fall of man,
And hunters good, that
understood, 125
Their laughter knew no bounds,
To see the horses ‘throwing off,’
So long before the hounds.
But now Old Robin’s foes were set,
That fatal taint to
find, 130
That always is scent after him,
Yet always left behind.
And here observe how dog and man
A different temper shows—
What hound resents that he is
sent 135
To follow his own nose?
Towler and Jowler—howlers all—
No single tongue was mute;
The stag had led a hart, and lo!
The whole pack follow’d
suit. 140
No spur he lack’d—fear stuck a knife
And fork in either haunch;
And every dog he knew had got
An eye-tooth to his paunch!
Away, away! he scudded
like 145
A ship before the gale;
Now flew to ‘hills we knew not of,
Now, nun-like, took the vale.
Some gave a shout, some roll’d about,
And antick’d as they
rode, 150
And butchers whistled on their curs,
And milkmen tally-ho’d!
About two score there were, not more,
That galloped in the race;
The rest, alas! lay on the
grass, 155
As once in Chevy Chase,
But even those that gallopped on
Were fewer every minute—
The field kept getting more select,
Each thicket served to thin
it. 160
For some pulled up and left the hunt
Some fell in miry bogs,
And vainly rose and ‘ran a muck,’
To overtake the dogs.
And some, in charging hurdle
stakes, 165
Were left bereft of sense;
What else could be premised of blades
That never learn’d to fence?
But Roundlings, Tom and Bob, no gate
Nor hedge, nor ditch, could
stay; 170
O’er all they went, and did the work
Of leap-years in a day!
And by their side see Huggins ride,
As fast as he could speed;
For, like Maseppa, he was
quite 175
At mercy of his steed.
No means he had, by timely cheek,
The gallop to remit,
For form and fast between his teeth
The biter held the
bit, 180
Trees raced along, all Essex fled
Beneath him as he cate—
He never saw a country go
At such a country rate!
• • •
But soon the horse was well
avenged 185
For cruel smart of spurs,
For riding through a moor, he pitched
His master in a furse!
Where, sharper set than hunger is,
He squatted all
forlorn; 190
And like a bird was singing out
While sitting on a thorn.
Right glad was he, as well might be,
Such cushion to resign;
Possession is nine points, but
his 195
Seemed more than ninety-nine.
Yet worse than all the prickly points
That enter’d in his skin,
His nag was running off the while
The thorns were running
in!"
200
We omit Huggins’s further exploits and returned him safely
to the Wells after the hunt was over.
"And many a horse was taken out
Of saddle and of shaft;
And men by dint of drink became
The only ‘beasts of draught.’
For now begun a harder
run 205
On wine, and gin, and beer;
And overtaken men discuss’d
The overtaken deer.
How far he ran, and eke how fast,
And how at bay he
stood, 210
Deer-like, resolved to sell his life
As dearly as he could:
And how the hunters stood aloft,
Regardful of their lives,
And shunn’d a beast whose very
horns 215
They knew could handle knives.
How Huggins stood when he was rubb’d
By help and ostler kind,
And when they cleared the clay before,
How ‘worse remain’d behind.’" 220
And now to conclude with the Moral.
"Thus Pleasure oft eludes our grasp,
Just when we think to grip her;
And hunting after Happiness,
We only hunt a slipper."
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We
can assure all our readers, however, that there is a pleasure
to be derived from the perusal of Mr. Hood’s very whimsical
effusion, which we advise them not to suffer to slip. In these
dull times it is quite a treat to encounter so merry a
companion.
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November 13, 1829. Volume
2, No. 38. |
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Napoleon
By Grenville Mellon
"Napoleon, when in St. Helens, beheld a bust of his son,
and wept."
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Long on the
Parian bust he gazed,
And his pallid lips moved not;
But when his deep cold eye he raised,
His glory was forgot;
And the heated tears came down like
rain, 5
As the buried years swept back again—
He wept aloud!
He who had tearless rode the storm
Of human agony,
And with ambition wild and
warm,
10
Sailed on a bloody sea,
He bent before the Infant head,
And wept—as a mother weeps her dead!—
The pale and proud!
The roar of the world had passed— 15
On a sounding rock alone,
An excile, to the earth he cast
His gathered glories down:
Yet dreamt he of his victor race,
Till, turning to that marble
face, 20
His heart gave way;
And nature saw her time of power—
A conqueror in tears!
The mighty bowed before a flower,
In the chastisement of
years! 25
What can this mystery control!
The father comes, as man’s high soul,
And hopes decay.
Alone before that chiseled brow,
His proudest
victories 30
Flit by, like hated phantoms now,
And holier visions rise—
The empire of the heart unveils,
And lo! that crownless creature wails
His days of
power. 35
The golden days whose sun went down,
As at the icy pole,
Lightning with dim but cold renown
The kingdom of the soul!
When all life’s charities were
dead, 40
And each affection failed or fell
That withering hour!
Oh! had the monarch to the wind
His hope of conquest flung,
And to the victory of the
mind 45
Had his warrior footsteps rung,
To one whom destiny decrees
Such fadeless fame.
Oh! had the tyrant cast his crown
And jewels all away— 50
What though the pomp of life had flown,
And left a lowering day!
Then had thy speaking bust, brave boy,
Awoke with memories of joy
Thy fated
name! 55
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November 13, 1829. Volume
2, No. 38. |
An Italian Scene
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It is the hour of
vespers now—
The sun hath sought his ocean rest,
And on the highest mountain’s brow,
Some few green spots with smiles are drest
And bathed in day’s departing
light, 5
Like memory’s dreams afar they shine
Brightly, as on some peaceful night
Pours out the moon her looks divine.
Nature seems robed for festal hour—
Behind, where marble cities
swell, 10
The far blue hills arise and lour
As clouds in Autumn skies will dwell:
Dim, shadowy masses they uprear,
Their dark-blue foreheads in the skies,
As if ambition should be
there, 15
To pour his burning sacrifice.
And see, where soft and mellowed streams,
Burst from the uplifted rocks, and roll
Like liquid gold—with boundless gleams
Spurning the fetters of
control; 20
While sweetly, to the listening ear,
The song they murmour on their way
Comes, happily, distinct, and clear,
Gladdening the heart, like fancy’s ray.
EVERAD.
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November 13, 1829. Volume
2, No. 38. |
The Dead Soldier
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He sleeps! the
hour of mortal pain,
And warrior pride alike are past,
His blood is mingling with the rain,
His cheeks are withering in the blast.
This morning there was a bright hue
there, 5
The flash of courage stern and high;
The steel has drained its current clear,
The storm has bleached its gallant dye,
This morn these icy hands were warm,
That lid half shewed the glazed
ball, 10
Was life—thou chill and clay-faced form,
Is this the one we loved?—This all?
Woman, away, and weep no more,
Can the dead give you love for love—
Can the grave hear? His course was o’er 15
The spirit wing’d its way above.
Wilt thou for dust and ashes weep?
Away thou, my husband lies not here—
Look to yon Heaven! if love is deep,
On earth; tis tenfold deeper
there. 20
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November 13, 1829. Volume
2, No. 38. |
Farewell to Departing Summer
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Ah! fairest
season—sad I see,
Thy beauty its reign depart;
How oft thou has delighted me,
And warmed with joy my heart.
Thy bonny sunny days are o’er, 5
Like youth so quickly gone,
And thy sweet flowers I see no more,
I cull’d and call’d my own.
Thy genial smiles, thy gentle show’rs,
Thy morn, thy evening
dew; 10
Hath nourish’d them, as friendship’s pow’rs
Sustain some happy few.
All round the fields this day I cast
A look—and sigh’d farewell;
They minded me of summers
past, 15
And those I lov’d so well.
They minded me of many a one,
Who like thee, fair and gay,
Were here a while, and sweetly shone,
Then dying, pass’d
away. 20
Yes little flow’rs, like thee we fade,
Like thine our days decline,
Some in a cold neglected shade,
Their vital spark resign.
Some blooming gay in earliest
pride, 25
Just crop’d to bloom no more;
Late fondly cherish’d, turn aside,
Their place in vain explore.
Oh! if ye mark the green sod mound,
Which hides the wreck
beneath! 30
Ah me! a voice of sweetest sound,
Died in its farewell breath.
Louisa
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November 17, 1829. Volume
2, No. 39. |
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(From the New York Mirror.)
"We
are such stuff
As
dreams are made of.",
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Oh, prize thou
not too fond, too high,
The passing scenes of earth;
For many a bitter tear, and sigh
Proclaim their transient worth:
And the wild heart which stoops to
bind 5
To earth its hopes supreme,
Will find, by sad experience find,
Its promise but a dream.
Genius that strives through toil and pain
To climb the steep of
fame, 10
Seeking with restless mind to gain
An amaranthine name;
When that proud, dazzling height is won,
With sick’ning sigh shall seem
That all he fixed his heart
upon, 15
Was but a fleeting dream.
Ask of ambition’s poisoned soul
The worth of all his spoils,
When he has reached the tempting gaol
Of hopes that crowned his
toils; 20
And he shall own with aching breast
Which loathes the solemn theme,
That pomp, and power, and glory, rest
Upon a baseless dream.
How fair the front of youthful
years, 25
How lovely and serene!
Where boy hood’s laughing eye appears
In all its glorious sheen:
But passions in their darkling rage
Hide its fast fading
beam, 30
And the knit brow of tottering age
Tells peace is but a dream.
Joy after joy is torn away,
Friend after friend departs,
As death with wide unswerving
sway,
35
Breaks the long chain of hearts;
While every leaf that autumn throws
Sere in the forest stream—
And every faded floweret shows
That life is but a
dream. 40
Yea, the unnumbered forms that are
Where the wild waters moan,
In ocean’s living sepulchre,
Unnoted and unknown—
And the green countless mounds that
sleep 45
Beneath the night’s pale beam,
Whisper in accents stran and deep,
That life is but a dream.
And is there then no stranger clime
Isled in yon glorious
sky, 50
Where the freed soul midst joys sublime,
Shall never fear to die?
Must its high hopes of bliss repose
On time’s eventful scheme,
While every pulse of nature
shows 55
That life is but a dream?
Hush—there’s a world where changes cease,
And tears are all unknown;
Where every heart is tuned to peace,
And bliss is every
tone:
60
Lo, the immortal spirit swells
With the inspiring theme,
And its high hope of being tells
That world is not a dream!
Proteus
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November 17, 1829. Volume 2, No. 39. |
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The Canadian Girl
By Adam Kidd, Esq.
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I saw her by the
dimpling lake.
Just when the sun’s last ray was setting,
And paused to hear her softly wake
The lover’s tale of sad regretting—
Till every note that passed
along, 5
Inspired me with her magic song
The loveliest of the lovely far,
She seemed in that retreat so lonely,
Bright hallowed by the vesper star,
Which o’er her then was twinkling
only, 10
Giving a charm to that loved spot,
Which never yet has been forgot.
And as the wood she wandered through,
Her milk-pail in her hand she carried,
Nor made one minute’s pause to
view 15
A youth who there had fondly tarried,
The throbbings of his heart to tell,
And love’s too sure enchanting spell.
Oh! never yet has pleasure wove
Around the heart such soft
attraction, 20
As binds me to this tinted grove,
Adorned in nature’s gay perfection.
Forming a blushing arbour sweet,
Where too young hearts might gladly meet.
There is a pure—a sacred
bliss 25
That o’er the soul comes gently stealing,
When musing in a spot like this,
Touching the very soul of feeling—
And oh! that I its joy could share
With my beloved Canadian
fair. 30
Quebec,
1829.
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November 17, 1829. Volume
2, No. 39. |
|
From the N. Y. Mirror.
Ballad
|
|
It was a morn of
summer time,
And birds among the branches sung,
And from the distant ranks sublime
The gathering trumpet rung.
Roughly on Ada’s ear it roll’d, 5
Her cheek grew pale—her blood ran cold,
When Conrad round his shoulders bold
His red-cross mantle flung.
She rose—she raved—the burning dew
Rush’d down her cheek like lava
rain; 10
One kiss—one clasp—one wild adieu—
He’s gone o’er mount and main.
She hurried to the rampart’s height,
To see his gallant courser’s flight.
And his proud helmet’s plume of white— 15
But Ada looked in vain.
And months and years had pass’d away,
And still her strong love stronger grew,
And all her thoughts by night and day
Was that last sad
adieu. 20
"Adieu!" mid the green hills she’d cry,
And deem the sympathetic sky
Would to the answering hills reply,
"Adieu—adieu—adieu!"
She pray’d where alter tapers
burn, 25
From morning’s dawn to evening’s close;
Nor pray’d in vain, he did return,
The victor of his foes.
Thus may we wield our country’s blade,
Thus may we meet our faithful
maid, 30
And war with this love’s peaceful shade
His weary limbs repose.
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November 17, 1829. Volume
2, No. 39. |
|
To Felicia Hemans
"Bright names will hallow song."
|
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Hadst thou,
beneath the cloudless skies
Of old heroic lands,
Poured forth thy thrilling melodies
Amidst assembled bands,
Unnumbered harps had waked for
thee 5
Triumphant peals of jubilee.
And they had voted thee a crown,
A laurel chaplet green:
And hailed thee in thy blest renown
The Lyre’s transcendant
queen: 10
And borne thee through their ancient ways
The idol of a Nation’s gaze.
Such were thy meed: but holier far,
All gentle as thou art,
To thee, than crown or triumph
car, 15
The homage of the heart,
So shat thou reign, like summer’s smile,
The gladness of thy native isle.
Thou of a hundred lays!—on thee
As on the inspired of
old, 20
As voice, a power, a ministry,
Things glorious to unfold,
Hath fal’en, earth’s depths to thee unvealing,
And Heaven in harmonies revealing.
The south-wind came on viewless
wings
25
From bowers of fragrance race,
And sighing o’er thy harp’s bright strings,
Left all its sweetness there:
The sun-set gleams to each soft tone
Bequeathed a splendour all their
own. 30
And, varied as the iris-hues,
Thy graceful numbers blend:
Now like the summer’s sparkling dews
In radiance they descend;
Now pensive as the
cypress-glooms 35
That rest on oriental tombs.
Anon, a solemn cadence floats
O’er twilight landscapes dim,
Grand as the organ’s rolling notes,
Sweet as a choral
hymn, 40
Borne fitfully upon the gale
From some lone chapel of the dale.
Enchantress: in thy fervid songs,
Fame, joy, grief’s piercing sound,
All, all that to the heart
belongs, 45
Have general echoes found:
Thine too are the impassioned spells
That lie in earth’s wild, sad farewells.
All gentle, and all holy themes
Truth, hope, faith’s martyr
name, 50
Touched by thy spirit’s golden dreams,
Have found immortal fame:
Even death, the stern one, doth appear
Hymned by the harp, less dark and drear.
Oh! thou a splendid chain hast
wrought 55
Of life’s endearing ties,
Through human love, and many a thought
Of home’s fond memories:
And richer still thy verse hath shrined
The mysteries deep of woman’s
mind 60
Woman, the true, tho’ ill requited!
From whose meek spirit flows
A purer incense, crushed and blighted,
Like to the wounded rose
Oh beautiful and meet her
praise 65
Sounds in a gifted sister’s lays!
Methought as o’er me blandly stole
The witchery of the strain,
Since thou hadst breath’d my inmost soul,
I ne’er would sing
again: 70
Yet, ere its voice of song be mute,
Thy name shall sanctify my lute.
Catharine
G. Goodwin
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November 20, 1829. Volume
2, No. 40. |
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The Last Man
By Thomas Campbell
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All worldly
shapes shall melt in gloom,
The Sun himself must die,
Before this mortal shall assume
Its immortality!
I saw a vision in my
sleep, 5
That gave my spirit strength to sweep
Adown the gulph of Time!
I saw the last of human mould,
That shall Creation’s death behold,
As Adam saw her
prime! 10
The Sun’s eye had a sickly glare,
The earth with age was wan,
The skeletons of nations were
Around that lonely man!
Some had expired in flight,—the
brands
15
Still rushed in her bony hands;
In plague and famine some!
Earth’s cities had no sound nor tread;
And ships were drifting with the dead
To shores where all was
dumb! 20
Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood,
With dauntless words and high,
That shook the sore leaves from the wood
As if a storm pass’d by,
Saying, we are twins in death, proud
Sun, 25
Thy face is cold, thy race is run,
’Tis mercy bids thee go,
For thou ten thousand thousand years
Hast seen the tide of human tears,
That shall no longer
flow. 30
What though beneath thee man put forth
His pomp, his pride, his skill;
And arts that made fire, flood, and earth,
The vassals of his will;
Yet mourn I not thy parted
sway, 35
Thou dim discrowned king of day;
For all those trophied arts
And triumphs that beneath thee sprang,
Heal’d not a passion or a pang
Entail’d on human
hearts. 40
Go, let oblivion’s curtain fall
Upon the stage of men,
Nor with thy rising beams recall
Life’s tragedy again,
Its piteous pagents bring not
back, 45
Nor waken flesh, upon the rack
Of pain a new to writhe;
Stretch’d in disease’s shapes abhorr’d,
Or mown in battle by the sword,
Like grass beneath the
scythe, 50
Ev’n I am weary in yon Skies
To watch thy fading fire;
Test of all sunless agonies,
Behold not me expire,
My lips that speak thy dirge of death— 55
Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath
To see thou shalt not boast.
The eclipse of Nature spreads in my pall—
The majesty of Darkness shall
Receive my parting
ghost. 60
This spirit shall return to Him
That gave its heavenly spark;
Yet, think not, Sun, it shall be dim
When thou thyself art dark!
No! it shall live again, and
shine 65
In bliss unknown to beams of thine
By Him recall’d to breath,
Who captive led captivity,
Who robb’d the grave of Victory,—
And took the sting from
Death!
70
Go, Sun, while Mercy holds me up
On Nature’s awful waste
To drink this last and bitter cup
Of grief that man shall taste—
Go, tell the night that hides thy
face, 75
Thou saw’st the last of Adam’s race,
On earth’s sepulchral clod,
The dark’ning universe defy
To quench his Immortality,
Or shake his trust in
God! 80
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November 20, 1829. Volume
2, No. 40. |
|
Battle Song of a Grecian Soldier’s Lady
|
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Go forth!—like
the sun in his might.
Go forth!—like the dawning of day;
May the plume on thy helm be the star of the fight,
And thy brand be the flash of the fray!
I love thee—yet ne’er be it
said, 5
That love did thy spirit restrain;
I had rather behold thee a hero and dead,
Than a coward in life to remain—
Then "forward and fear not!" the battle cry be;
With glory return, or return not to
me! 10
I could joy o’er thy corse, though my tears
Should wash the red wounds death had made,
For each crimson gash like a ruby appears.
On the front if it be but displayed!
But O! my soul never could
bear 15
The thought that thou fledst from the foe;
One Scar on the back would awaken despair,
And give to my heart its death blow;
Then "forward and fear not" thy battle cry be;
With glory return and in welcome to
me! 20
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November 20, 1829. Volume
2, No. 40. |
|
From the London Literary Gazette
The Sybil
|
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Mine ear hath
heard a sound—a stifled cry
Of distant sorrow; up from the abyss of time
Springs the sad wail of helpless agony—
The laugh of scorn, the scoff, the ribald
rhyme,
The fearful consequence of lust and
crime; 5
O! sin hath crushed a heart that went a
stray
From the right path, and with her serpent slime
Of pleasure daubed it hideously gay,
The surer thus to gorge and fatten on her prey!
Stay, mortal, thy career! and ere the
hour 10
Of retribution comes, that comes to all,
O! let Repentance use her saving power
To free thy soul from miserable thrall—
Call with a warning voice, nor vainly call;
Then shall the bonds of vice apart be riven; 15
And angels, when they see thy shackles fall,
Almost—so great the joy will be in heaven—
Wish they had sinned like thee, to be like thee forgiven
Wouldst thou learn wisdom? Seek it not
In the hermit’s cell or the peasants
cot; 20
For the hermit’s cell, though far it be
Away from the world’s impurity,
Holds but little of earthly good
Beyond the charm of solitude;
As the flower that springs in desert
ground 25
Looks only bright for the waste around;
And the lowly cot of the peasant, though
long
It has Paradise seemed in the minstrel’s
song,
Hath its ample share of wants and woes
When clothed in reality’s humble
prose. 30
Turn
away, then,
From
the path that leads
To
the mountain glen
Or
the flowery meads;
Come when the moon her beauty
discloses 35
Over thy garden bowers of roses;
Come not in fear or in company
With a trembling heart and a fearful eye,
But, armed not the more, nor guarded the
less,
Come alone in thy
gentleness 40
And spread thy little white hand to me—
Thou shall be taught by palmistry.
There is a line upon thine hand—
Deeply, deeply that line is traced;
Ne’er hath the eye of futurity
scanned, 45
Ne’er hath the finger of Providence,
placed
On
mortal mould
A
type that told
Of half the sum of human bliss,
As,
in characters
known 50
To
me alone,
Is graven in letters of light on this.
Thou shalt be happy, for happiness flies
Even round the fountain of light divine,
That is fed by the streams of virtue which
rise
55
With sparkling radiance in hearts like thine;
And
if ever sin
By
chance should win
A wish or a thought for her guilty store,
Thy
memory
cast 60
To
the times then past,
Remember the Sybil, and sin no more
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November 20, 1829. Volume
2, No. 40. |
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Lochleven Castle
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Hail! rude and
frowning pile,
Holding thy vigil lone
Amid that heath-clad isle
Where Leven’s waters moan;
Shew me the dreary prison
tower 5
Of Scotland’s beauteous queen.
Who, reared in Gallia’s royal bower,
Endur’d thy tyrant spleen.
Count me the thousand sighs
Her tortur’d bosom pour’d— 10
The tears that dimm’d those eyes
Which rival kings ador’d.
Dark was the colouring of her fate!
An ingrate brother’s corn—
Of her own native realm, the hate— 15
Of madden’d love, the thorn.
Methinks a flying boat
Still cleaves yon midnight tide,
Its gleaming torch-lights float
In mingled fear and
pride: 20
I hear their shouts those eager lords!
O’er Leven’s billows bright,
As high they raise their glittering swords
In Mary Stuart’s right.
Vain! vain! for far
away 25
The scaffold’s pall is spread,
And sad tears force their way
To wail the beauteous dead,
But gladness lights her haughty mein
Who weilds the vengeful rod:— 30
Who made thee judge, thou English queen?
Her sins are with her God.
Hence! boding bird of night—
Hence! to thy secret cell;
Thy scream hath put to
flight 35
Wild Fancy’s tissued spell:
Again Lochleven’s ruin’d towers
The silver moonbeams flout,
And darkening herbage chokes the bowers
Whence the rich harp breath’d
out. 40
Spirit of ages past!
Thy parting wing goes by,—
I hear it on the blast
That sweep, the troubled sky;
But still in every musing
heart
45
Thy sceptred power must reign,
And Time shall lift the Spoiler’s dart
Against thy throne in vain.
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November 24, 1829.
Volume 2, No. 41. |
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The Angel's Call
By Mrs. Hemans
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"Hark
they whisper! angels say,
Sister spirit, come away!"
Come to the land of peace!
Come where the tempest hath no longer sway,
The shadow paces from the soul
away, 5
The sounds of weeping cease!
Fear hath no dwelling there!
Come to the mingling of repose and love,
Breathed by the silent spirit of the dove
Through the celestial
air! 10
Come to the bright and blest,
And crown’d forever!—midst that shining band,
Gathered to Heaven’s own wreath from every land
Thy spirit shall find rest!
Thou hast been long
alone; 15
Come to thy mother!—on the Sabbath shore,
The heart that rocked thy childhood, back once more
Shall take its wearied one.
In silence wert thou left;
Come to thy sisters; joyously
again 20
All the home-voices, blent in one sweet strain,
Shall greet their long bereft!
Over thine orphan head
The storm hath swept, as o’er a willow’s bough:
Come to thy father!—it is finished
now; 25
Thy tears have all been shed.
In thy divine abode
Change finds no path way, memory no dark trace,
And oh! bright victory—death by love no place;
Come, Spirit to thy
God! 30
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November 24, 1829. Volume
2, No. 41. |
Song
|
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When eyes are
bright with pleasure,
And brows with wreaths are crown’d,
To music’s sweetest measure
The heart shall gaily bound.
While palid care forgets to
call, 5
And smiling beauty lights the hall,
Devote to bliss the passing hour,
Perhaps the next may darkly lower.
When
eyes are bright, &c.
This life were but a dreary
scene, 10
Without such little spots of green;
But every joy like this we taste
Imparts new strength to tread the waste.
When
eyes are bright, &c.
Such pleasures leave no sting
behind, 15
But sweetly elevate the mind,
Till every heart, with generous glow,
Is blest in seeing others so
When
eyes are bright, &c.
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November 24, 1829. Volume
2, No. 41. |
Stanzas
|
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There is a beauty
in the high smooth brow,
Silence and mournfulness, the spirit seems
To drink from younder Heaven, even now,
It’s bright and glorious and matin dreams:—
As if the spirit-worship, and the
thought,
5
With purity of thoughts to angels given,
Is awed and holy stilness, rising sought
Its home within the sacred vault of Heaven.
There is a beauty in the full calm eye,
It speaks the mind’s unearthly visionings; 10
The tablet of its own eternity,
The light that glows upon earth’s darkling
things.
From some pure, distant, twilight beaming star,
Yet may not all its glory hither bring,
As if it loved to reign enthroned
afar, 15
In the pure blue of Heaven revelling.
Oh, beauty’s angle eye!
Thy sacred brightness beaming o’er
The bosom’s ill and loneliness,
Thy gentle light is worshiped
more, 20
That its intensity is less
Than in its native sky;
The slumbering fire, whose light divine
Heaven alone might dare to shine.
Oh! beauty’s angel
eye! 25
Purer and holier when the pageantry
Of life surrounds thee not;
With all of passion passed away from thee,
And all of youth forgot;
We lift thee unto
Deity, 30
Then dare to kneel and worship thee.
Hinda
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November 24, 1829. Volume
2, No. 41. |
Stanzas
|
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I turn and turn, but
find no way?--YOUNG.
|
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No cloud displays
its fairy sail
Along the beamy air,
Beauty is in the sleeping vale,
And joy comes laughing on the gale,
That softly whispers
there. 5
But wherefore falls the frequent tear
From this once mirthful eye?
Is it that thoughts of friendship’s bier,
Where sleep the lovely and the dear,
Throng fast and solemn
by? 10
Ah, no; for they again shall rise
At the appointed hour;
And seraph-wafted to the skies,
With guiltless heart and tearless eyes,
Their blissful peans
pour. 15
Alas, it is that memory’s wing
Breaks conscience-troubled rest,
Who deeper strikes each poisoned sting
That lies all still and cankering,
Within my youthful
breast.
20
I had a high and glorious dream
Of hope and heaven combined;
Tis vanished like the meteor beam,
That flashes from the midnight stream,
And leaves all dark
behind. 25
Fled are the joy’s of joyous prime,
Despair’s dread scourge before;
The vision of that glorious clime,
So bright, so holy, so sublime,
Will never glad me
more. 30
The cup of bliss that mercy gave,
I reckless dash’d from her;
And now, alas, no power can save
My spirit from that darkest grave—
Hope’s living sepulchre. 35
Ashamed to live, afraid to die,
The trembling child of scorn,
I mark the hast’ning hours sweep by,
With many a sad and sickening sigh,
Bewildered and
forlorn. 40
Twere gain to die, if death were all
The penance and the pain;
But lo, the resurrection’s call
Shall pierce the charnel’s silent hall,
And I must grieve
again. 45
There’s not a ray of hope for me,
Nor peaceful hour below.
Terrific thought—that I must be,
Through life the sport of misery,
In death—the heir of wo! 50
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November 24, 1829. Volume
2, No. 41. |
Love
|
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Love knocked at
the door of my heart one day,
When my pulse with youth beat high;
Saying "Let me in, good sir, I pray,
I have wandered far, and I’ve lost my way,
Do not put me
by!" 5
"That tale," said I, "I have heard before,
And it made my poor heart yearn,
So I let you in at its widest door,
And pitied your case till my eyes ran o’er;
But what was the kind
return? 10
"While I nestled you there with a fond desire
To lighten your spirit’s load,
You set the combustible dwelling on fire,
Then laughed till you cried, with a joyance higher
Than your mother at Ida
showed. 15
"And when Reason came with her stores of snow
To proffer her wintry aid,
You wickedly bent a trust bow
And laid her dead on the spot. I trow
Ye’re an archer, rogue, by
trade. 20
"Grief came with her tears like a friend well tried
Kindly though sad of soul,
But you stealthily stole to her gentle side,
And dashed down her urn with its precious tide
So the fabric was burnt to a
coal. 25
"And now that poor Hope, whom your wanton guile
Left houseless and homeless then,
Has returned and rebuilt the ruinous pile,
And lit it up with her radiant smile,
Do you think to deceive me
again?" 30
"What! Hope returned—and now your guest?
O do, sir, let me in!
She’s a sister of mine, and I cannot rest
Till I fold her again to my brotherly breast—
And her gentle pardon
win." 35
So I lifted the latch of my heart once more;
For how could I be unkind;
But Hope, who had known of his guile before,
Flew trembling out at the other door,
And Love—he lingered
behind! 40
PORTEUS.
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November 27, 1829. Volume
2, No. 42. |
|
Remember Me
Air—MOZART.
From the Literary Magnet.
|
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Remember me when
summer friends surround thee,
And honied flatterers win thy willing ear,
When fame, and Fortune’s glittering wreaths have crown’d
thee
And all is thyne thy fickle heart holds
dear;
Then think of her whose changeless fondness blessed
thee 5
When hope was dark and faithful friends were
few,
Who, when hard, griping poverty depressed thee,
And all beside seemed cold, was kind and
true.
Remember me in courtly hall and bower,
And when thou kneel’st at some proud
beauty’s
shrine 10
Ask of the past, if through life’s varying hour,
Its joys and griefs her love can equal mine
And when thy youthful hopes are most excited,
Should she prove false and break her faith
like thee,
Think of the hopes thy wayward love hath
blighted, 15
And from that lesson learn to feel for me.
Remember me, and oh! when fate hath breft thee,
Of fame and fortune, friends, and love and
bliss,
Come back to one, thou know’st would ne’er have left thee
And she’ll but chide thy falsehood with a
kiss! 20
But no, no, no, I, feel that life is waining,—
That what I was I never more can be;—
That I am fast on that sweet haven gaining
Where there is rest for even a wretch like
me.
Remember me! thou canst not sure refuse
me, 25
The only boon from thee I’ve sought, or
seek;
Soon will the world with bitter taunts acuse me,
Yet wake no blushes on my bloodless cheek!
But I would have thee tender of my fame,
When I have scaped life’s dark tumultuous
sea; 30
And, howsoe’er unkinder spirits blame,
As what thou know’st I was, Remember me!
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November 27, 1829. Volume
2, No. 42. |
|
To The Royal Oak
Supposed to be spoken by Charles II. on his escape.
|
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Now, thanks to
Heaven, and thanks to thee,
For thou my richest thanks hast won;
My foes are past, and I am free,
May night befriend as thou hast done;
Thanks to thy branches, thickly
met, 5
I have escap’d their fury yet.
My Sire, their Sovereign, they slew,
The victim of their lawless ire;
They for my life are thirsting too—
But no!—thy blood, my martyr’d
Sire, 10
Shed on the Scaffold, yet shall be
The beacon-light of loyalty.
And hopes of vengeance on the train
Of traitors, still shall animate
My wish to live, my will to reign— 15
They fear, but they shall feel
my hate,
When Heaven shall call me to my own,
And seat me on my father’s throne,
But thanks to thee, for only thou
Could save me from those ruthless
men, 20
My subjects borne, but rebels now?
A cave—a tree—a desert-den,
The safety they deny, must give
To England’s King, a fugitive.
Farewell! while monuments of
worth, 25
Examples to the world to show,
Shall shine unfeelingly on earth,
The sun-bursts of renown below;
The brightest scroll shall bear thy name—
This hour shall chronicle thy
fame. 30
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November 27, 1829. Volume
2, No. 41. |
The Spartan March
|
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|
The
Spartans used not the trumpet in their march to battle, says
Thucydides, because they wished not to excite the rage of
their warriors.—Their charge was made to the sound of the
Dorian flute, and soft recorders. The valour of a Spartan was
too highly tempered to require a stunning or a rousing
impulse. His spirit was like his steed, too proud for a spur.
|
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’Twas morn upon
the Grecian hills,
Where peasants dressed their vines;
Sunlight was on Cithæron’s rills,
Arcadia’s rocks and pines.
And brightly through his reeds and
flower 5
Eurotas wandered by;
When a sound arose from Sparta’s towers,
Of solemn harmony.
Was it the hunter’s choral strain,
To the woodland goddess pour’d? 10
Did virgin hands in Pallas’ fane
Strike the full sounding chord?
But helms were glancing on the stream
Spears ranged in close array;
And shields flung back a glorious
beam 15
To the morn of fearful day.
And the mountain echoes of the land,
Swelled through the deep blue sky;
While, in soft strains, moved forth a band
Of man who moved to
die. 20
They marched not with the trumpet’s blast,
Nor bade the horn peal out;
And the laurel groves, as on they pass’d,
Rung with no battle shout.
They wished no clarion’s voice to
fire
25
Their souls with Impulse high;
But the Dorian reed, and the spartan lyre,
For the sons of Liberty!
And still sweet flutes, their path around,
Sent forth Æolian
breath, 30
They needed not a sterner sound
To marshall them for death.
So moved they calmly to the field,
Thence never to return,
Save bearing back the Spartan
shield, 35
Or on it proudly borne.
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November 27, 1829. Volume
2, No. 42. |
|
From the American Manufacturer.
The Mourner
|
|
Rolled up the
veiling cannon smoke—
A burthen on the air;
It streamed before the setting sun—
Till the battle field lay bare.
It streamed against the setting
sun,
5
And caught its tinge of red,
And poised upon its bloody wing,
O’er shadowing the dead.
Rang out the earnest clash of steel
In mortal trial,
yet, 10
Wherever on that flooded field,
The eyes of foemen met,
And heavily in the distance
Pealed the unfrequent gun—
A banner bashed, or a lance shot
up 15
In the path way of the sun.
And ghastly in the day light
A thousand faces shone,
And quivered many a trodden form
Where life yet lingered
on. 20
Gray hairs lay steeped in slaughter,
The cheek of youth was pale,
And manhood’s breast of iron
Heaved not beneath its mail.
Fearful! Oh, very
fearful! 25
Is the sight of slaughtered men—
The rayless eye—the trmpled heart,
Where the battle steed has been;
Yet who is she who steals among
Those wrecks of being
now? 30
A timid form—with trembling step,
And shaken eye and brow.
What seeks she on a spot like this,
So burthened with the dead?
The red soil of the battle
field, 35
Is not for woman’s tread.
How fearfully she gazes
On the still, dark faces near!
And bendeth o’er the fallen
With a shudder and a
tear! 40
• • •
Dawn burst upon the darkness—
Outshone the morning sun,
Uprising o’er the same pale forms
Its light went down upon,
Where was that evening
wanderer? 45
Who with light and fearful tread
Had stolen o’er that ghastly field,
Like an angel to the dead?
Had she not sought her fallen chief,
Through the cruel wrecks of
war, 50
The morning found her by his side,
As pale—but lovelier far,
Oh, love! how deep and passionate
Thy hold on woman’s heart;
For happier with the loved to
die, 55
Than live and mourn apart.
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