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October 2,
1829. Volume 2, No. 26. |
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An Appeal
By P.M. Wetmore
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"Oh!
could ye taste the mirth ye mar, you conquerors"
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Ye
worshippers of glory
Who bathe the earth in blood,
And launch proud names for an after age
Upon the crimson flood,
Pause in your march of
terror! 5
Who hovers o’er your path;
Madness, despair, and death await
The conflict’s gathering wrath!
Think ye a throne will prosper,
A nation’s glory
rise, 10
When your bark is borne by a people’s tears,
And wafted by their sighs?
Look to the peacefull dwelling
Of the peasant and his race;
There’s joy around that lowly
hearth, 15
There’s rapture on each face.
That brow with snow is whiteness,
Those eyes with age are dim;
But his face is bright at the twilight hour,
As he joins the evening
hymn. 20
For his children there are smiling.
What a blessed sight it is
To sit in the shades of a pleasant eve,
And gaze on a scene like this!
Two manly youths are
standing 25
Beside their father’s chair,
And a maiden’s face, all loveliness,
Shines like a sunbeam there.
A mothers placid features
Are in that circle
found, 30
And her bosom warms with a thrill of joy
As she fondly looks around.
On through the paths to glory,
Ye mighty conquerors!
The trumpet’s voice has summoned
forth 35
Your legions to the wars!
Rush on through fields of carnage,
And tread to earth the foe!
Where’er your banners float above,
Let your sabres flash
below! 40
Yet stay your march to greatness,
Your breath has been a fate!
Where is the peaceful cottage now?
Its hearth is desolate!
Upon that door no
longer 45
The twilight shadows fall;
In a shroudless grave the old man sleeps
Beneath the ruined wall.
Ye tore away his strong ones—
On the battle field they
lie; 50
The mother pined in her grief away,
And laid her down to die.
That form of seraph sweetness,
Where the eye enraptured gazed,
Is a piteous wreck in its
loveliness
55
For the lost one’s brain is crazed.
’Twere better she were sleeping
Within the silent tomb;
For never more to her frenzied eye
The flowers of life shall
bloom! 60
And these are ’mong the trophies
That build you up a name—
With blood and tears ye conquerors!
Ye purchase empty fame.
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October 2,
1829. Volume 2, No. 26. |
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Doom
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Not with
Sybil lights I trace
Lines of burning on thy
brow—
Nor may Sybil touch efface
That which I will read
thee now!
For a darker, deeper
scroll, 5
To my vision did unroll—
Time! old Time, the dread unsealer,
Time! old Time, the cold revealer,—
Shrank I, at the shine and shade
Fearful on the page
portrayed; 10
Then at last my spirit stood
Nerved to meet or ill or good,
And from that dark page to thee
Will I read thy destiny.
By the throbs even now that
come 15
O’er the red blood
coursing free,—
By the nameless, traceless gloom,
Mingling with thy wildest
glee,—
By the loathing ever spun
Round each phantom woo’d and won,— 20
By the tear of childhood’s cheek,
Sighs that from its slumbers break,
As the mother bending low,
Marvels at her infant’s woe,
By it all, a hidden
thought 25
Is around thy being wrought;
Aye, through peril, pang and strife,
Guiding on the tide of life.
Lightly o’er thee, clouds are flying
As the blue mist veils the
sky, 30
Morning, to thy beck replying,
Ever sees the phantoms
die.
Now, the rustling of a leaf
Can beguile the dream of grief;
And the bursting rose’s
glow 35
Wins thee from the thoughts of woe:
Now, the night beam gilds thy sleeping—
It will mark thee watching, weeping,
With a shadow on thy heart
Morning cannot bid
depart; 40
Woe, that cold Mortality
Gathers thus the dark "To be."
Time I saw—his finger pressed
Where the young bud
laughing lay—
Fainting, fading on his
breast. 45
How its beauty passed
away!
By the blushing cheek he stood—
Slow recoiled the crimson flood,
And the heart’s delicious thrill
Aye beneath his touch grew
still; 50
Severed aye the loved and cherished,
Aye the fairest, blackened, perished:
’Twas a deep and deadly sting,
Shrouded in his mystic wing;
Sad, it waved a sadder
morrow, 55
Then our hearts grew ice in sorrow;—
And from that, the dark "To be"
Read I, as it sleeps for thee.
NORNA.
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October 6,
1829. Volume 2, No. 27. |
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The Coquette
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What is she
worth, who bendeth back her head,
To whispering tongues, when her mute
lover’s nigh;
Joying to mark the feverish, flushing red
Of jealous rage into his his features
fly?
Who, hasty despot, useth
tyranny 5
Before those chains be riveted, which bind
For ever to her yoke; what cruel eye,
What hard heart weareth she, what wanton mind
To torture him the beautiful, the true, the kind?
Hath she the bosom which should proudly
be 10
A pillow to his head, when vex’d
with care
His weary spirit from the world shall flee,
And look to find a world of comfort
there?
Oh! think it not: for rather she, than
share
The heavy burden that weighs down his
soul, 15
Shall heap it with her taunts; her
words shall tear
The last sigh from his heart; her fierce control
Make the unpitied tear-drops down his bosom roll.
Oh! fly from her, the tyrannous, the strong,
The cunning, the hard-hearted, mate
not
there 20
The honey of her looks shall dry up long
Before their flow’ry blossoms faded
are:
The tangles of her soft and silk-like
hair
Anger shall turn to grey long ere her prime;
And, when the temple is no longer
fair, 25
Its inmate devil shall gain strength from time,
And gather mightier pow’r for cruelty and crime.
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October 6,
1829. Volume 2, No. 27. |
Absence
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There’s
brightness in the starry sky
And stillness o’er the dimpled sea,
Save where the watchful night-bird’s cry
Comes on the wild breeze tremblingly;
But oh! what are the starry
skies, 5
Or peace below, or light above,
When far away from those we prize,
When parted from the hearts we love?
There’s silence in the ocean cave,
And all is calm and bright and
still, 10
And the moon smiles sweetly on the wave,
But the waves beneath are cold and
chill;
And oh! as cold as the waves that play
Beneath that moon-beam from above,
We feel, we feel, when far
away, 15
When parted from the heart we love.
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October 6,
1829. Volume 2, No. 27. |
The Threee Sisters
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Hear ye
what you flow’rets say?
Sister roses, sister roses,
Let us love while yet we may,
Ere our brief communion closes.
Breaths that, kissing, meet
to-day, 5
Cheeks now fondly prest together,
Ere the more may pass away,
Scattered by the varying weather;—
Ere the marrow, cruel men
May our bond of union
sever. 10
Can it e’er be join’d again?
Sister roses, never, never.
‘Gentle girls,’ the flow’rets say,
‘From our lives this precept borrow:
Love, as sisters ought, to
day. 15
For ye may be wives to-morrow.’
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October 6,
1829. Volume 2, No. 27. |
The Sleeper
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Sleep on—sleep
on—above thy corse
The winds their sabbath keep—
The wave is round thee—and thy breast
Heaves with the heaving deep;
O’er thee, mild Eve her beauty
flings, 5
And there the white gull lifts her wings,
And the blue halcyon loves to lave
Her plumage in the holy wave.
Sleep on—no willow o’er thee bends
With melodious
air, 10
No violet springs, nor dewy rose
Its soul of love lays bare;
But there the sea flower bright and young
Is sweetly o’er thy slumbers flung,
And, like a weeping mourner
fair, 15
The pale flag hangs its tresses there.
Sleep on—sleep on—the glittering depths
Of ocean’s coral caves
Are thy bright urn—thy requiem
The music of its
waves; 20
The purple gems for ever burn
In fadeless beauty round thy urn,
And, pure and deep as infant love,
The blue sea rolls its waves above.
Sleep on—to thee the moon-beam
comes 25
Unbroken from on high,
Pure, radiant, as when first it fell
Upon thine infant eye;
And oft the morning bow will shed
Its softest glories round thy
head, 30
And seem, as o’er thy form it gleams,
The emblem of thy spirit’s dreams.
Sleep on—sleep on—the fearful wrath
Of mingling cloud and deep,
May leave its wild and stormy
track, 35
Above thy place of sleep.
But when the wave has sunk to rest,
As now ’twill murmur o’er thy breast,
And the bright victims of the sea
Perchance will make their home with
thee.
40
Sleep on—thy corse is far away,
But love bewails thee yet—
For thee the heart-wrung sigh is breathed,
And lovely eyes are wet;
And she, thy young and beauteous
bride, 45
Her thoughts are hovering by thy side,
As oft she turns to view with tears
The Eddy of departed years.
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October 9,
1829. Volume 2, No. 28. |
Why is thy harp, young minstrel, paus’d
Forever ’neath a midnight sky?
Why dies the descant from each cheed
In notes, half moans, half melody?
Why are thy lays forever
given 5
To ruined hopes and feelings riven.
It cannot be in life’s first bloom
Thy gifted heart hath lost its spring;
Love’s broken faith—false friendship’s gloom—
(Clouds that, while ages last, must
fling 10
Their shade upon dust’s feeble line,)
Should darken other brows than thine.
Full well I know the weary night
That follows women’s waning smile—
Full well I know the dagger—bite
15
Of fickle friendship’s tongue of guile—
I know full well rude fortune’s thrall—
And thou, mayhap, hast known them all.
But no—thy stormy course, thou say’st
Is brightened by one tender beam— 20
Then, by the love of her thus placed
Like flowers o’er undiscovered stream,
Gladd’ning its lone, neglected way;
Sweep thy wild harp to livelier lay.
And friendship sill, fond bard, is thine— 25
Nor trust me, should’t thou hail it
less,
If, like some distant star it shine,
That beams for aye but cannot bless—
Oh! could it shed one ray o’er thee,
Yet prize it, powerless though it
be. 30
Is thy lot lorn? it differs not
From that of all the brightest—best,
Genius, thy crown was ever sought
Through ways by pain and toil opprest;
And thou—thou too art emulous— 35
Then cheer thee—Oh! why murmur thus?
We both can boast no wealth below—
But GOD,
thy glorious world is ours!
The starry night—the sunset glow—
Earth—ocean—mountains—valleys—bowers! 40
Can all the pearls from India’s seas
Procure the stores we draw from these?
Farewell! I bless thee on thy way
Young Pilgrim, o’er Parnassus’ path!
Though tempests shroud the dawning
day,
45
Yet carol blithely through its wrath—
Sweep thy wild harp to livelier tone,
Wake all thy minstrel spirit—on!
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October 9,
1829. Volume 2, No. 28. |
(From the American
Monthly Magazine.)
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Napoleon
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He came, as
comes the sun at draw,
Upon a slumbering world;
Corruption at his nod was gone,
The tyrant’s banner furl’d;
Thrones trembled at his giant
tread, 5
Crowns fell around his feet,
And shook the ashes of the dead
His eagle glance to meet.
He came, a child whom men might scorn,
And vision faint to
feel. 10
But Europe saw her proudest born
Before his presence kneel;
And kings and conquerors faded far
In shadow from his name,
As fades the faintest silver
star 15
Behind the sunrise flame.
He went upon the battle ground,
Strong, yea, invincible;
Of death to enemies around
His cannon tones were
full; 20
With requiems rang his trumpets, ere
The deadly fight began,
And fell as many foes from fear
As from opposing man.
An island in a sleeping
sea 25
Him sent abroad to reign;
An island in a stormy sea
Has got him back again;
He came on earth, determined, stern,
And hard to be
denied, 30
Empires and thrones to overturn,
And on the greatest, died.
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October 9,
1829. Volume 2, No. 28. |
Ode to the Wren
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Sweet minstrel of the
yellow bower,
That dimly meets the morning ray,
With here and there a summer flower,
That fades unwept, unseen, away;
Though scarce a warbler, strains his
throat 5
To soothe the heart or please the ear,
To me, thy solitary note
Is still as soft, as clear.
No season chills thy tranquil joys,
Or calls thy little breast to
mourn; 10
One theme thy scanty thought employs,
As rolling months and years return.
Thou hast a song, however dark
These ever changing skies appear,
Heard till the glow-worm lights her
spark, 15
The twilight stream, or copse-wood
near.
While man, the great, the brave, the wise,
To hoary age from youthful bloom,
Though scenes as various round him rise,
Goes weeping onward to the
tomb. 20
His mightier mind by reason’s ray,
Though cheer’d and lighted, sinks
opprest;
And moments as they steal away,
Still leave him anxious and unblest.
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October 13,
1829. Volume 2, No. 29. |
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(Extracts from Mr. Sprague’s Poem.)
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The Press
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Where
half-fledged bards on feeble pinions seek
An immortality of near a week;
Where cruel eulogists the dead restore,
In maudlin praise to martyr them once more;
Where ruffian slanders wreak their coward
spite, 5
And need no venomed dagger while they write:
There, (with a quill, so noisy and so vain,
We almost hear the goose it clothed complain,)
Where each hack scribe, as hate or interest burns,
Toad or toad-eater, stains the page by
turns; 10
Enacts virtue, usurps the critic’s chair,
Lauds a mock Guido, or a mouthing player;
Viceroys it o’er the realms of prose and rhyme,
Now puffs pert "Pelham," now "The Course
of Time;"
And though ere Christmas both may be
forgot, 15
Vows this beats Milton, and that Walter Scott;
With Samson’s vigour feels his nerves expand,
To overthrow the nobles of the land;
Soils the green gardlands that for Otis bloom,
And plants a brier even on Cabot’s
tomb: 20
As turn the party coppers, heads or tails,
And now this faction and now that prevails,
Applauds to-day what yesterday he cursed,
Lampoons the wisest and extols the worst;
While hard to tell, so coarse a daub he
lays, 25
Which sullies most, the slander or the praise.
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October 13,
1829. Volume 2, No. 29. |
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The News
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Behold
the sick man in his easy chair;
Barred from the busy crowd and bracing air,
How every passing trifle proves its power
To while away the long, dull, lazy hour.
As down the pane the rival rain-drops
chase, 5
Curious he’ll watch to see which wins the race;
And let two dogs beneath his window fight,
He’ll shut his Bible to enjoy the sight.
So with each newborn nothing rolls the day,
Till some kind neighbour, stumbling in his
way, 10
Draws up his chair, the sufferer to amuse,
And makes him happy while he tells—The News.
The News! our morning, noon, and
evening cry;
Day unto day repeats it till we die.
For shis the cit, the critic, and the
fop 15
Dally the hour away in Tonsor’s shop;
For this the gossip takes her daily route,
And wears your threshold and your patience out;
For his we leave the parson in the lurch,
And pause to prattle on the way to
church; 20
Even when some coffined friends we gather round,
We ask, "What news?" then lay him in the
ground;
To this the breakfast owes its sweetest zest,
For this the dinner cools, the bed remains unpressed.
What gives each tale of scandal to the
street, 25
The kitchen’s wonder and the parlour’s treat?
See the pert housemaid to the keyhole fly,
When husband storms, wife frets, or lovers sigh;
See Tom your pockets ransack for each note,
And read your secrets while he cleans your
coat; 30
See, yes; to listen, see, even Madam deign,
When the smug sempstress pours her ready strain.
This wings the lie that malice breeds in fear,
No tongue so vile but finds a kindred ear;
Swift flies each tale of laughter, shame, or
folly,
35
Caught by Paul Pray and carried home to Polly;
On this each foul calumniator leans,
And nods and hints the villainy he means;
Full well he knows what latent wildfire lies
In the close whisper and the dark
surmise; 40
A muffled word, a wordless wink has woke
A warmer throb than if a Dexter spoke;
And he, o’er Everett’s periods who would nod,
To track a secret half the town has trod.
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October 13, 1829. Volume 2, No. 29. |
(From the Irish Shield.) |
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Apostrophe
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To
the Harp of Dennis, Hampson the Minstrel of Magilligan,
in the County of Derry.
[For the following elegant effusion,
which was called forth from the author’s muse, on his
visiting the residence, and viewing the harp of Denis
Hampson, one of the last of our wandering minstrels,
about four years ago, we are indepted to the poetic pen
of A DAM KIDD,
ESQ. of
Quebec. This talented gentleman has now in press a
dramatic poem entitled the "HURON
CHIEF"
of which we shall give a review as soon as it is
published.]
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In the gloom of repose from
the hand that has often
Through transport the purest touch’d
gently thy string,
Thou art destined, ah, never! again once to soften
The heart with such rapture as melody
brings.
Ah, no! dearest Harp! bleakest ruin hangs o’er
thee, 5
Thy chords are all torn—and the
minstrel now dead,
Who first through his own native Isle proudly bore thee,
And loved from thy bosom soft music to
shed.
Yet the children of Erin shall guard the willow,
That bends in luxuriance o’er his
lone
grave,
10
And nods in the night-winds, half fann’d by the
billow,
Which loves the Magilligan shores
still to lave.
In the sunshine of days now but living in story,
Around his thatched cot would the
villagers throng.
When the heart felt no motion save proud bursts of
glory, 15
And thrills of delight still awoke by
his song.
Oh HAHMPSON!
each charm sweetest music has in it,
In soul-breathing numbers came forth
at thy touch,
And yielded fresh rapture each heavenly minute,
That the heart until then never knew
half as
much. 20
But peace to thy shade! and while o’er thy wreck’d
lyre,
True emblem of Erin! now hush’d in
the hall—
In sorrow I gaze—deep reflections inspire,
And saddest emotions my bosom enthral.
Yet dare I but venture, loved harp! to restring
thee, 25
With hand, though but humble, yet
faithful and true,
The zephyrs, while playing at evening might bring thee,
Such music as Memnon’s when
sun-beam glide through,
But now since the night shades are closing around thee,
My last parting wish o’er thee
bending I’ll
pour: 30
Undisturbed may’st thou rest, as when first I found
thee,
For Freedom to Erin her anthem retore!
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October 13,
1829. Volume 2, No. 29. |
There is a land of
rudest guise
Where nature undisturbed reposes
In unprun’d forests, on wild roses;
And where the humid evening closes
’Mid fairy scenes and glorious
skies. 5
That land of wildness is my own;
And oft, in childish freak, I strayed
O’er mountain height and flower-clad
glade—
Free as the wild bird, which had flown
At my approach; whose warblings ne’er 10
Had wak’d to ecstasy the ear;
Unless perchance the savage train
Had laid beneath the ancient oak
The deer which fell beneath their
stroke,
To list its proud voluptuous
train; 15
And, as it thrill’d, and swelling rose,
In artless changes to the close,
With parted lip, and raised eye,
Blest their own forest minstrelsy.
There was a dingle, where the
sun 20
Slept upon many a lonely flower:—
It seemed that nature formed that
bower,
Where she and Liberty might shun
The eye of man.—In evening hour
Blest sounds of music thence arose:— 25
It was a proud yet broken strain
And trembled o’er the distant plain
In fainter murmurs at each close.
’Twas infant Genius, as he swept
The Western Harp’s yet untuned
strings; 30
And vague and wild imaginings,
Mix’d with a thousand lovely things,
At once into existence leapt.
Yet, loveliest, in his beaming eye,
The various scenes of nature
lie. 35
The evening sun-lit star he sung,
When Hesper shines on heaven’s brow,
And flitting lights are out below,
From glowing wings in myriads clung.
He sang the broad, majestic
moon, 40
Riding above a dormant world,
And causing night, with banner furled,
To half resign his silent noon,
He sung Aurora’s lucid birth,
Curtained by gold and crimson
clouds, 45
While bright, beneath, her subject earth
A dew-impearled green enshrouds,
The cataract’s roar, the placid stream,
The rolling storm’s corruscant gleam,
The mountain hoar, the spreading
plain, 50
The glassy lake, the billowy main,
The rugged wood, the tuneful grove,
The charm of unrestrained love—
Shone in his lucid glance of fire,
And swept along his sounding
lyre. 55
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October 16,
1829. Volume 2, No. 30. |
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The Broken-Hearted
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"The
heart will break, yet brokenly live on."—BYRON.
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There was a being, not
beyond his prime,
And his dark hair had many stragglers
grey,
Much more the work of sorrow than of time,
Yet he was thought a reckless wight,
and gay,
’Twas said in youth his heart was wrung by care— 5
Let that be as it may—he loved again—
The object of his love was young and fair.
As are the Peris of the Moslem men.
She knew not, that he loved—for if they met,
His eye proclaimed not what his heart
contained, 10
Yet were his best affections on her set—
This mood, his pride or hopelessness
maintained,
He met her once as he did contemplate
To leave his land, and her he loved so
well—
He did not speak—but dark hints of his
fate 15
He wrote—sent to her—thus the
periods fell:—
"Strange, dark and chequered too, hath been the
course
Of my life’s current, which hath
passed away—
I now resign me to its headlong force,
Which I have struggled with for many a
day— 20
And there are moments when I wildly think
That I am one whom fate hath set apart
To buffet or to baffle—dost thou shrink
To hold communion with—a broken
heart?
"Yes, my career, e’er since I was a
boy, 25
Hath been care-strewn—its very
brightest hour
Hath been gloom-tinted—if in life’s vast wild
My heart hath set its love on some
fair flower
That moment leaf and blossom died away—
Shattered—crushed—levelled—mine
has been the
smart, 30
What heart can hold the records of decay,
And not be justly styled—a broken
heart?
"Life is a desert—a mere waste to him
Who hath not one to greet him with a
smile—
A sea of troubles where the wretch may swim— 35
To death, unwelcomed by a cheering
Isle.
And thus am I—and yet my heart loves one
Who knows me not—thyself!—oh, do
not start,
Perhaps thou’lt hear of me when cold and gone—
For thou’rt the tenant of—a broken
heart? 40
"My fortunes lie upon an ebbing tide,
Yet few the measure of my care can
trace
By studying my looks—for tis my pride
To scout each shade of gloom from off
my face,
I’ve lived a struggler and I thus must fall— 45
Man’s villainy hath made me so—and
I impart
Of that which yet remains—it is my all!—
Spurn not the off’ring—tis—a
broken heart!
"I saw thee lately—did my soul rejoice
To see thee look as lonely as
before? 50
By heaven it did!—and then I heard that voice
Which late I feared that I should hear
no more!
For I had roved away far off from thee,
But with my frame my heart could not
depart—
Distant, not near, thou ever not must be— 55
Thou lost loved idol of—a broken
heart!"
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October 16,
1829. Volume 2, No. 30. |
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The Fairest Land
FROM Ma. HAWLEY'S WORKS
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Sweet are your flowers, the
wanderer said,
And sweetly they breathe thro’ the
lucid air,
But what are their hues or the sweets they shed,
To the flowers of a land more fair,
Bright are your skies—but a land I
knew, 5
Far back, in the years of a happier
time,
With lovelier suns, and heavens more blue
Than the loveliest ray of your clime.
Pure is your stream, and the sun-beam glows
Brightly upon its swelling
wave; 10
I know where a purer fountain flows,
And more radiant sun-beams lave.
There are eyes of light in your land, whose rays
Can kindle a transient, meteor flame,
Which round the heart for a moment
plays, 15
And never is felt again!
O there is one, in that distant land,
Who moves in the sphere of a thousand
charms,
The blended spells of your brightest band
One thought of that fair
disarms. 20
There is a land to the wanderer dear,
Tho’ far, far away his footsteps
roam;
Its memory is cherish’d with many a tear,
And that fairest of lands is HOME.
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October 16,
1829. Volume 2, No. 30. |
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Song
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Yes, I will love thee when
the sun
Throws light upon a thousand flowers;
When winter’s biting breath is gone,
And spring leads on the smiling hours,
And I will call thee beautiful— 5
More beautiful than May’s bright
wreaths.
Tho’ all the air with sweets be full,
Tho’ every bird his soft tone
breathes.
And I will love thee when the earth
Is bright with summer’s rich
attire; 10
When morn to seas of gold gives birth,
And eve to brighter wreaths of fire;
When the broad moon and burning stars
Are riding thro’ the lucid air
On snow-white fleecy clouds for cars— 15
Then will I dream of thee my fair!
I’ll love thee when the autumn winds
Sweep heavily the misty plain;
When the last flower its cold bed finds,
And birds are far away again:— 20
When the last pale and withered leaf
Along the swollen stream floats on—
One thought of thee shall give relief,
Tho’ bright and lovely things are
gone.
And I will shield thee when the
breath 25
Of winter beats upon the earth;
And we will laugh at nature’s death,
Content with love and festive mirth.
The tale and sportive song shall be
Only of soft and fairy
things; 30
Young Love shall rest with us, and we
Will give old Time his silken wings.
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October 16,
1829. Volume 2, No. 30. |
JOY!—JOY!—JOY!—
Comes bounding o’er the plain,
A rosy, laughter-loving Boy,
’Mid Pleasure’s sportive train!
Around his brows a viny
wreath 5
With the blushing rose is twin’d,
And his scented locks rich odours breathe
To every passing wind.
JOY!—JOY!—JOY!—
His smile is like the
morn, 10
As he roams a jolly Hunter-boy
’Mid the sound of hound and horn!
While echo bears on ev’ry breeze
His spirit-stirring voice,
And his care-dispelling
melodies
15
Make the leafy woods rejoice!
JOY!—JOY!—JOY!—
He decks the festal shrine;
And the bright eyes of the laughing Boy
O’er the wine-cup gaily
shine! 20
He leads the revel and the dance,
He chants the bridal song,
And sports in Beauty’s sunny glance
Life’s glowing scenes among!
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October 20,
1829. Volume 2, No. 31. |
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Columbus on First Beholding America
From the "African and other Poems," by Mr.
D. Moore
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God of my sires! o’er
ocean’s brim
Yon beauteous land appears at last;
Raise, comrades raise your holiest hymn,
For now our toils are past
See o’er the bosom of the
deep 5
She gaily lifts her summer charms,
As if at last she long’d to leap
From dark oblivious arms
What forms, what lovely scenes may lie
Secluded in thy flowery
breast; 10
Pure is thy sea, and calm thy sky,
Thou Garden of the West!
Around each solitary rill
A rich magnificence is hurl’d,
Thy youthful face seems wearing
still 15
The first fresh fragrance of the
world.
We come with hope, our beacon bright,
Like Noah, drifting o’er the wave,
To calm a world—the ocean’s might
Has shrouded like a
grave; 20
And, oh! the dwellers of the Ark
Ne’er pined with fonder hearts to
see
The birds of hope regain their bark
Than I have long’d for thee
Around me was the boundless
flood, 25
O’er which no mortal ever pass’d;
Above me was a solitude
As measureless and vast;
Yet in the air and on the sea,
The voice of the Eternal
One 30
Breathed forth the song of hope to me,
And bade me journey on.
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October 20,
1829. Volume 2, No. 31. |
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Lines to Marianne
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The madd’ning cup from
pleasure’s stream
And fancy’s gay, but fading dream,
The warrior’s thrill, when sabres gleam,
All! all! are known to me,
my love.
But oh! one glance from thy bright
eyes, 5
Wakes in my soul more thrilling joys,
From thy dear smile more raptures rise
Than ought on this side
Heaven, my love.
And mortal tongue can never tell,
My bosom’s agonizing
swell, 10
The fatal morn I bade farewell,
A long farewell to thee,
my love.
Could’st thou have watch’d my tear-swoln eye,
Despairing fixed on vacancy,
Thou had’st not then refused to
fly, 15
With me to other shores,
my love.
That ocean on whose wave-beat strand.
Where first I clasp’d thy lily hand,
Had borne us to a happier land,
Where I might cherish
thee, my
love. 20
A land, where gentler breezes blow,
A land, where purer streamlets flow,
A land, where lovelier suns should glow,
More brightly shine on
thee, my love.
Tis done! th’ unchangeable
decree 25
Of fate is past, it may not be,
A wretched wand’rer far from thee,
I long am doom’d to
roam, my love.
One cheering ray beams o’er me yet,
The thought thou never can’st
forget 30
The time we at Mount——met
And interchanged our vows,
my love,
When o’er thy roof the wild storm flies,
When pealing thunders rend the skies,
Each pearly drop in thy bright
eyes, 35
Shall say thou think’st
on me, my love.
And oh! when I am far from thee,
That thought my guiding star shall be,
Through storms and dark adversity,
To cheer my drooping heart, my
love. 40
C.
T. T.
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October 20,
1829. Volume 2, No. 31. |
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Autumn
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There is a hue, a soft and
mellowing shade,
Steals o’er the forest and embrowns the glade,
Long ere the rugged hand of winter drear
Tears from the withered branch its garment sear;
Scarce shalt thou see it on the yellowing
edge 5
Of each green leaf; and yet the certain pledge
Is there, that the year’s youth is past,
And cold decripitude is coming fast.
It speaks of bright things fading, and of light
Shrinking away in the dark arms of
night; 10
It shadows forth man’s ever-withering state,
With dim prophetic comment on his fate;
It counsels hope—since things that fade on earth,
Light, seasons, flowers, all know a second birth.
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October 20,
1829. Volume 2, No. 31. |
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The War Dance
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(From Moore’s
Evenings in Greece)
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"Raise the buckler—poise
the lance—
Now here—now there—retreat—advance!"
Such were the sounds to which the warrior boy
Danced in those happy days when Greece
was free
When Sparta’s youth, even in the hour of
joy, 5
Thus train’d their youth, to war and
victory!
"Raise the buckler—poise the
lance—
Now here—now there—retreat advance!"
Such
were the Spartan warrior’s dance.
"Grasp the faulchion—gird the shield— 10
Attack—defend—do all but yield!"
Thus did thy sons, oh Greece, one glorious night
Dance by a moon like this, till o’er
the sea,
That morning dawn’d by whose immortal light,
They grandly died for thee and
liberty! 15
"Raise the buckler—poise the
lance—
Now here—now there—retreat advance!"
Such
was the Spartan heroes’ dance.
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October 20,
1829. Volume 2, No. 31. |
Where, O, my spirit hastes thy flight,
With trembling speed away,—
Wilt thou forever leave my sight—
O, gentle spirit say?
Say if again we meet
below? 5
Nay do not fleet so fast,
It is not kind so soon to go,—
We should be friends at last.
Then little flut’rer fare thee well—
We may not meet
again, 10
But since thou dost not kindly tell,
We will not part in pain.
L. E. L.
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October 29,
1829. Volume 2, No. 32. |
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Song
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The world’s a wild garden
of pleasure and pain,
Which the Sun of true Friendship
adorns!
Though we gather its flowers, yet, alas! ’tis in vain
We flee to escape from its thorns;
So blended they are, that the delicate
flower 5
Scarce blooms, till, encumbered, it
dies;
Though ’tis nursed in the bud of affection’s warm
shower
Which in gratitude falls from our
eyes.
Then, my friend, it has long been a query with me
Since pleasure’s so blessed with wo, 10
With the thorn with the delicate rose-buds I see,
To pluck the frail treasure or no,
Oh! should we not rather forego the delight,
She’s the flower such enjoyment will
bring;
Since to taste would be only to feel the keen
blight, 15
And to open our souls to the sting;
Oh! no! let us gather the flower in its prime,
And in reason be blessed whilst we
can;
For alike we are destined the victims of Time,
And no flower is more transient than
man. 20
For, trust me, my friend, that kind Heav’n ne’er
sent
The thorn to encumber the ground,
But where a sweet rose bud in mercy was lent,
To soften the pain of its wound.
Then, if ever to feel sad misfortune be
mine, 25
Or thy eye ever dim’d with a tear,
Friendship’s rose round our thorns shall as artfully
twine
That not e’en a spine shall appear.
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October 23,
1829. Volume 2, No. 32. |
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Song of the Bees
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From the Token for
1830
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We watch for the light of
the morn to break,
And colour the eastern sky
With its blended hues of saffron and lake,
Then say to each other, "Awake! awake!
For our winter’s honey is all to
make! 5
And our bread for a long supply."
And off we hie to the hill and the dell,
To the field, to the meadow and bower;
We love in the columbine’s horn to dwell,
To dip in the lily with snow-white
bell 10
To search the balm in its oderous cell,
The mist and the rosemary flower.
We seek the bloom of the eglantine,
Of the pointed thistle and brier;
And follow the steps of the wandering
vine, 15
Whether it trail on the earth, supine,
Or round the aspiring tree-top twine,
And reach for a state still higher.
While each on the good of her sister’s bent,
Is busy and cares for
all; 20
We hope for an evening with heart’s content.
That summer is gone, its hours misspent,
And the harvest is past recall.
H.
F. Gould.
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October 23,
1829. Volume 2, No. 32. |
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The Butterfly
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The Butterfly was a
gentleman,
Of no very good repute,
And he roved in the sunshine all day long
In his scarlet and purple suit;
And he left his lady-wife at
home, 5
In her own secluded bower;
Whilst he, like a bachelor, flirted about
With a kiss for every flower.
His lady-wife was a poor glow-worm,
And seldom from home she’d
stir; 10
She loved him better than all the world,
Though little he cared for her.
Unheeded she passed the day—she knew
Her ford was a rover then;
But when the night came on, she lighted her
lamp 15
To guide him over the glen.
One night the wanderer homeward came,
But he saw not the glow-worm’s ray;
Some wild-bird saw the neglected one,
And flew with her far
away, 20
Then beware, of Butterflies all, beware,
If such a time should come;
Forsaken by wandring lights, you’ll wish
You had cherished the lamp at home.
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October 27,
1829. Volume 2, No. 33. |
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The Nightingale's Death Song
By Mrs. Hemans
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Mournfully, sing
mournfully,
And die away, my heart!
The rose, the glorious rose is gone,
And I too will depart,
The skies have lost their splendour, 5
The waters changed their tone,
And wherefore, in the faded world,
Should music linger on?
Where is the golden sunshine,
And where the flower-cup’s
glow? 10
And where the joy of the dancing leaves,
And the fountain’s laughing flow,
A voice in every whisper
Of the wave, the bough, the air,
Comes asking for the
beautiful, 15
And moaning—"Where, oh I
where?"
Tell of the brightness parted,
Thou Bee, thou Lamb at play!
Thou Lark in thy victorious mirth!
—Are you too, pass’d
away? 20
Mournfully, sing mournfully!
The royal Rose is gone:
Melt from the woods, my spirit melt
In one deep farewell tone!
—Not so!—swell forth
triumphantly 25
The full, rich, fervent strain!
Hence with your Love and Life I go,
In the Summer’s joyous train.
With Sunshine, with sweet odour,
With every precious
thing, 30
Upon the last warm southern breeze,
My soul its flight shall wing.
Alone I shall not linger
When the days of hope are past,
To watch the fall of leaf by
leaf, 35
To wait the rushing blast.
Triumphantly, triumphantly,
Sing to the woods, I go!
For me perchance in other lands,
The glorious rose may
blow. 40
The sky’s transparent azure,
And the greensward’s violet breath,
And the dance of light leaves in the wind,
May these know nought of Death.
No more, no more sing
mournfully! 45
Swell high, then break, my heart!
With Love, the Spirit of the Woods,
With Summer I depart!
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October 27,
1829. Volume 2, No. 33. |
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The Hour of Death
[By Mrs. Hemans]
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Leaves
have their time to fall,
And flowers to wither at the North wind’s breath,
And stars to set—but all,
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh Death!
Day is for mortal care— 5
Eve, for glad meetings round the joyous hearth—
Night, for the dreams of sleep, the
voice of prayer,
But all for thee, though Mightiest of the Earth!
The banquet hath its hour—
Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and
wine; 10
There comes a day for Grief’s o’er
whelming power
A time for softer tears—but all are thine!
Youth, and the opening rose,
May look like things too glorious for decay,
And smile at thee!—But thou art not
of
those 15
That wait the ripen’d bloom to seize their prey
Leaves have their time to fall,
And flowers to wither at the North wind’s breath,
And stars to set—but all,
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh
Death! 20
We know when moons shall wane—
When summer birds from far shall cross the sea—
When Autumn’s hue shall tinge the
golden grain—
But who shall teach us when to look for thee?
Is it when Spring’s first
gale 25
Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie!
Is it when roses in our path grow
pale?
They have one season—all are ours to
die!
Thou art where billows foam—
Thou art where music melts upon the air— 30
Thou art around us in our peaceful
home,
And the world calls us far—and thou art there!
Thou art where friend meets friend,
Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest;
Thou art where foe meets foe—and
trumpets
rend 35
The skies—and swords beat down the princely crest.
Leaves have their time to fall,
And flowers to wither at the North wind’s breath,
And stars to set—but all,
Thou hast all seasons, for thine own, oh
Death! 40
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October 30,
1829. Volume 2, No. 34. |
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The Lovely Maud a Magyar Ballad
By Vorosmarty
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Is’t snow, or star, or
wavelet,
In the valley’s depth that plays?
Tis neither—but a meteor
That sparkles—that betrays.
Neither snow, nor star, nor
wavelet, 5
Is crown’d with ringlet hair;
But a maiden crown’d with ringlets,
Bathes in the streamlet there.
With grace beyond expression
She bows her lovely
head, 10
Her hand holds up a flow’ret,
By those sweet waters fed.
The wind is whispering secrets
Into that maiden’s ear,
The branches trembling round
her, 15
Seem all attracted near.
How swiftly would I bend me,
Were I but one of these,
How fondly would I kiss her,
Were I a heavenly
breeze. 20
Around her beauteous members,
Delighted fishes play;
The rivulet hush’d to silence,
Long tarries on its way.
Still longer should I
tarry; 25
Were I that silent stream;
But midst those fish to revel,
Would be the bliss supreme.
Ne’er would I leave those waters;
Where treat that maiden’s
feet, 30
But kiss and kiss untiring,
And die in bliss so sweet.
But how! my eyes deceive me;
This dream—tho’ bright it be—
Is but a mortal
likeness, 35
Of one less fair than she.
As in her beauteous shadow,
All earthly beauties fade;
So fades the maid’s fair shadow,
Before the fairer
maid. 40
Twas but a feeble picture,
Twas but a shadow rude,
That playing in the wavelets,
In maiden beauty stood.
Far lovelier in her
sorrow, 45
On the ocean strand afar,
She stood—of love—and feeling
The more than magic star.
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October 30,
1829. Volume 2, No. 34. |
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(From the Mirror.)
"Around the lyre will cling, the thoughts of other
years."
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Oh ask me not to waken
My silent harp again;
Its chords, so long forsaken,
Must soundless still remain:
A breath may break the
slumbers 5
That on the harp strings lie,
And sadly breathe the numbers
Whose cadence is a sigh.
For me the lyre no longer
A spell of gladness
twines, 10
The spirit’s gloom is stronger
As the star of life declines;
Sad memories are swelling,
As the mind is backward cast;
And thought is darkly
dwelling 15
On the present and the past.
Full many a thought unspoken,
And many a whispered tone—
The friendships formed and broken,
The ties forever
flown: 20
The blissful hours o’ershaded—
The days of sorrowing care—
The hopes too quickly faded—
The blightings of despair.
These are the fancies
clinging 25
Around the haunt of song;
A spell of sorrow flinging,
I dare not now prolong.
Then ask me not to waken,
My silent harp
again; 30
Those chords should be forsaken
That only wake to pain!
M.
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