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How bright the fagots in his little hall Blaze on the hearth, and warm the pictured wall!

How blest he names, in Love's familiar tone, The kind, fair friend, by nature mark'd his own; And, in the waveless mirror of his mind, Views the fleet years of pleasure left behind, Since when her empire o'er his heart began! Since first he call'd her his before the holy man! Trim the gay taper in his rustic dome, And light the wintry paradise of home; And let the half-uncurtain'd window hail Some way-worn man benighted in the vale! Now, while the moaning night-wind rages high, As sweep the shot-stars down the troubled sky, While fiery hosts in Heaven's wide circle play, And bathe in lurid light the milky-way,

Safe from the storm, the meteor, and the shower,

Some pleasing page shall charm the solemn hour

With pathos shall command, with wit beguile,
A generous tear of anguish, or a smile-
Thy woes, Arion! and thy simple tale,
O'er all the heart shall triumph and prevail !
Charm'd as they read the verse too sadly true,
How gallant Albert, and his weary crew,
Heaved all their guns, their foundering bark to

save,

And toil'd-and shriek'd-and perish'd on the wave!

Yes, at the dead of night, by Lonna's steep, The seaman's cry was heard along the deep; There on his funeral waters, dark and wild, The dying father bless'd his darling child, Oh! Merey, shield her innocence, he cried, Spent on the prayer his bursting heart, and died!

Or they will learn how generous worth sublimes

The robber Moor, and pleads for all his crimes!
How poor Amelia kiss'd, with many a tear,
His hand, blood-stain'd, but ever, ever dear!
Hung on the tortured bosom of her lord,
And wept and pray'd perdition from his sword!
Nor sought in vain! at that heart-piercing cry
The strings of Nature crack'd with agony!
He, with delirious laugh, the dagger hurl'd,
And burst the ties that bound him to the world!
Turn from his dying words, that smite with
steel

The shuddering thoughts, or wind them on the wheel

Turn to the gentler melodies that suit
Thalia's harp, or Pan's Arcadian lute;
Or, down the stream of Truth's historic page,
From clime to clime descend, from age to age!
Yet there, perhaps, may darker scenes ob-
trude

Than Fancy fashions in her wildest mood;
There shall he pause with horrent brow, to rate
What millions died-that Caesar might be great!
Or learn the fate that bleeding thousands bore,
March'd by their Charles to Dnieper's swampy

shore !

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Horseman and horse confess'd the bitter pang,
And arms and warriors fell with hollow clang.
Yet, ere he sunk in Nature's last repose,
Ere life's warm torrent to the fountain froze,
The dying man to Sweden turn'd his eye,
Thought of his home, and clos'd it with a sigh!
Imperial Pride look'd sullen on his plight,
And Charles beheld-nor shudder'd at the sight!
Above, below, in Ocean, Earth, and Sky,
Thy fairy worlds, Imagination, lie,
And HOPE attends, companion of the way,
Thy dream by night, thy visions of the day!
In yonder pensile orb, and every sphere
That gems the starry girdle of the year;
In those unmeasured worlds, she bids thee tell,
Pure from their God, created millions dwell,
Whose names and natures, unreveal'd below,
We yet shall learn, and wonder as we know;
For, as Iona's saint, a giant form,
Throned on her towers, conversing with the
storm,

(When o'er each Runic altar, weed-entwined, . The vesper clock tolls mournful to the wind,) Counts every wave-worn isle, and mountain hoar,

From Kilda to the green Ierne's shore;'
So, when thy pure and renovated mind
This perishable dust bath left behind,
Thy seraph eye shall count the starry train,
Like distant isles embosom'd, in the main;
Rapt to the shrine where motion first began,
And light and life in mingling torrent ran;
From whence each bright rotundity was hurl'd,
The throne of God-the centre of the world!

Oh! vainly wise, the moral Muse hath sung
That suasive HOPE hath but a Siren tongue!
True; she may sport with life's untutor'd day,
Nor heed the solace of its last decay,
The guileless heart her happy mansion spurn,
And part, like Ajut-never to return!

But yet, methinks, when Wisdom shall as

suage

The grief and passions of our greener age,
Though dull the close of life, and far away
Each flower that hail'd the dawning of the day;
Yet o'er her lovely hopes, that once were dear,
The time-taught spirit, pensive, not severe,
With milder griefs her aged eye shall fill,
And weep their falsehood, though she loves
them still!

Thus, with forgiving tears, and reconciled,
The King of Judah mourn'd his rebel child!
Musing on days, when yet the guiltless boy
Smiled on his sire, and fill'd his heart with joy!
My Absalom! the voice of Nature cried,
Oh! that for thee thy father could have died!
For bloody was the deed, and rashly done,
That slew my Absalom !-my son !-my son!

Unfading HOPE! when life's last embers burn, When soul to soul, and dust to dust return! Heaven to thy charge resigns the awful hour! Oh! then, thy kingdom comes! Immortal Power!

What though each spark of earth-born rapture fly

The quivering lip, pale cheek, and closing eye! Bright to the soul thy seraph hands convey The morning dream of life's eternal dayThen, then, the triumph and the trance begin, And all the phoenix spirit burns within!

Oh! deep enchanting prelude to repose, The dawn of bliss, the twilight of our woes! Yet half I hear the panting spirit sigh, It is a dread and awful thing to die! Mysterious worlds, untravell'd by the sun! Where Time's far wandering tide has never run, From your unfathom'd shades, and viewless spheres,

A warning comes, unheard by other ears.
'Tis Heaven's commanding trumpet, long and
loud,

Like Sinai's thunder, pealing from the cloud!
While Nature hears, with terror-mingled trust,
The shock that hurls her fabric to the dust:
And, like the trembling Hebrew, when he trod
The roaring waves, and call'd upon his God,
With mortal terrors clouds immortal bliss,
And shrieks and hovers o'er the dark abyss!
Daughter of Faith, awake, arise, illume
The dread unknown, the chaos of the tomb;
Melt and dispel, ye spectre-doubts, that roll
Cimmerian darkness o'er the parting soul!
Fly, like the moon-eyed herald of Dismay,
Chased on his night-steed by the star of day!
The strife is o'er-the pangs of Nature close,
And life's last rapture triumphs o'er her woes.
Hark! as the spirit eyes, with eagle gaze,
The noon of Heaven undazzled by the blaze,
On heavenly winds that waft her to the sky,
Float the sweet tones of star-born melody;
Wild as that hallow'd anthem sent to hail
Bethlehem's shepherds in the lonely vale,
When Jordan hush'd his waves, and midnight
still

Watch'd on the holy towers of Zion hill!

Soul of the just! companion of the dead! Where is thy home, and whither art thou fled? Back to its heavenly source thy being goes, Swift as the comet wheels to whence he rose; Doom'd on his airy path awhile to burn, And doom'd, like thee, to travel, and return.— Hark! from the world's exploding centre driven, With sounds that shook the firmament of Heaven,

Careers the fiery giant, fast and far,

On bickering wheels, and adamantine car,
From planet whirl'd to planet more remote,
He visits realms beyond the reach of thought;
But wheeling homeward, when his course is run,
Curbs the red yoke, and mingles with the sun!
So hath the traveller of earth unfurl'd
Her trembling wings, emerging from the world;
And o'er the path by mortal never trod,
Sprung to her source, the bosom of her God.
Oh! lives there, Heaven, beneath thy dread

expanse,

One hopeless dark idolator of Chance,
Content to feed, with pleasures unrefined,
The lukewarm passions of a lowly mind;
Who, mouldering earthward, 'reft of every
trust,

In joyless union wedded to the dust,
Could all his parting energy dismiss,
And call this barren world sufficient bliss ?-
There live, alas! of heaven-directed mien,
Of cultured soul, and sapient eye serene,
Who hail thee, Man! the pilgrim of a day,
Spouse of the worm, and brother of the clay,
Frail as the leaf in Autumn's yellow bower,
Dust in the wind, or dew upon the flower;

A friendless slave, a child without a sire,
Whose mortal life, and momentary fire,
Light to the grave his chance-created form,
As ocean-wrecks illuminate the storm;
And, when the gun's tremendous flash is o'er,
To night and silence sink for evermore!—

Are these the pompous tidings ye proclaim,
Lights of the world, and demi-gods of Fame?
Is this your triumph-this your proud applause,
Children of Truth, and champions of her cause?
For this hath Science search'd, on weary wing,
By shore and sea-each mute and living thing!
Launch'd with Iberia's pilot from the steep,
To worlds unknown and isles beyond the deep?
Or round the cope her living chariot driven,
And wheel'd in triumph through the signs of
Heaven!

Oh! star-eyed Science, hast thou wander'd there,

To waft us home the message of despair?
Then bind the palm, thy sage's brow to suit,
Of blasted leaf, and death-distilling fruit!
Ah me! the laurell'd wreath that Murder rears,
Blood-nursed, and watered by the widow's tears,
Seems not so foul, so tainted, and so dread,
As waves the night-shade round the skeptic
head.

What is the bigot's torch, the tyrant's chain?
I smile on death, if Heavenward HOPE re-

main !

But, if the warring winds of Nature's strife
Be all the faithless charter of my life,
If Chance awaked, inexorable power,
This frail and feverish being of an hour;
Doom'd o'er the world's precarious scene to
sweep,

Swift as the tempest travels on the deep,
To know Delight but by her parting smile,
And toil, and wish, and weep a little while;
Then melt, ye elements, that form'd in vain
This troubled pulse, and visionary brain!
Fade, ye wild flowers, memorials of my doom,
And sink, ye stars, that light me to the tomb!
Truth, ever lovely, since the world began,
The foe of tyrants, and the friend of man-
How can thy words from balmy slumber start
Reposing Virtue, pillow'd on the heart!
Yet, if thy voice the note of thunder roll'd,
And that were true which Nature never told,
Let Wisdom smile not on her conquer'd field;
No rapture dawns, no treasure is reveal'd!
Oh! let her read, nor loudly, nor elate,
The doom that bars us from a better fate;
But, sad as angels for the good man's sin,
Weep to record, and blush to give it in!

And well may Doubt, the mother of Dismay,
Pause at her martyr's tomb, and read the lay.
Down by the wilds of yon deserted vale,
It darkly hints a melancholy tale!
There, as the homeless madman sits alone,
In hollow winds he hears a spirit moan!
And there, they say, a wizard orgie crowds,
When the moon lights her watch-tower in the
clouds.

Poor lost Alonzo! Fate's neglected child!
Mild be the doom of Heaven, as thou wert mild!
For oh! thy heart in holy mould was cast,
And all thy deeds were blameless, but the last.
Poor lost Alonzo! still I seem to hear
The clod that struck thy hollow-sounding bier!

When Friendship paid, in speechless sorrow drown'd,

Thy midnight rites, but not on hallow'd ground!
Cease, every joy, to glimmer on my mind,
But leave-oh! leave the light of HOPE behind!
What though my winged hours of bliss have
been,

Like angel-visits, few and far between,
Her musing mood shall every pang appease,
And charm, when pleasures lose the power to
please!

Yes; let each rapture, dear to Nature, flee:
Close not the light of Fortune's stormy sea-
Mirth, Music, Friendship, Love's propitious
smile,

Chase every care, and charm a little while,
Ecstatic throbs the fluttering heart employ,
And all her strings are harmonized to joy !-
But why so short is Love's delighted hour?
Why fades the dew on Beauty's sweetest flower?
Why can no hymnèd charm of music heal
The sleepless woes impassion'd spirits feel?
Can Fancy's fairy hands no veil create,
To hide the sad realities of fate?-

No! not the quaint remark, the sapient rule,
Nor all the pride of Wisdom's worldly school,
Have power to sooth, unaided and alone,
The heart that vibrates to a feeling tone!
When stepdame Nature every bliss recalls,
Fleet as the meteor o'er the desert falls;
When, 'reft of all, yon widow'd sire appears
A lonely hermit in the vale of years;
Say, can the world one joyous thought bestow
To Friendship, weeping at the touch of Wo?
No! but a brighter sooths the last adieu-
Souls of impassion'd mould, she speaks to you!
Weep not, she says, at Nature's transient pain,
Congenial spirits part to meet again!

What plaintive sobs thy filial sprit drew, What sorrow choked thy long and last adieu! Daughter of Conrad? when he heard his knell, And bade his country and his child farewell! Doom'd the long isles of Sydney-cove to see, The martyr of his crimes, but true to thee? Thrice the sad father tore thee from his heart, And thrice return'd, to bless thee, and to part; Thrice from his trembling lips he murmur'd low The plaint that own'd unutterable wo; Till Faith, prevailing o'er his sullen doom, As bursts the morn on night's unfathom'd

gloom,

Lured his dim eye to deathless hopes sublime, Beyond the realms of Nature and of Time!

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And weep not thus," he cried, "young El-
lenore,

My bosom bleeds, but soon shall bleed no more!
Short shall this half-extinguish'd spirit burn,
And soon these limbs to kindred dust return!
But not, my child, with life's precarious fire,
The immortal ties of Nature shall expire;
These shall resist the triumph of decay,
When time is o'er, and worlds have pass'd away;
Cold in the dust this perish'd heart may lie,
But that which warm'd it once shall never die!
That spark unburied in its mortal frame,
With living light, eternal, and the same,
Shall beam on Joy's interminable years,
Unveil'd by darkness-unassuaged by tears!
"Yet, on the barren shore and stormy deep,
One tedious watch is Conrad doom'd to weep;

But when I gain the home without a friend,
And press the uneasy couch where none attend,
This last embrace, still cherish'd in my heart,
Shall calm the struggling spirit ere it part!
Thy darling form shall seem to hover nigh,
And hush the groan of life's last agony !
"Farewell! when strangers lift thy father's
bier,

And place my nameless stone without a tear;
When each returning pledge hath told my child
That Conrad's tomb is on the desert piled;
And when the dream of troubled Fancy sees
Its lonely rank grass waving in the breeze;
Who then will soothe thy grief, when mine is
o'er ?

Who will protect thee, helpless Ellenore?
Shall secret scenes thy filial sorrows hide,
Scorn'd by the world, to factious guilt allied?
Ah! no; methinks the generous and the good
Will woo thee from the shades of solitude!
O'er friendless grief compassion shall awake,
And smile on innocence, for Mercy's sake!"

Inspiring thought of rapture yet to be, The tears of Love were hopeless, but for thee! If in that frame no deathless spirit dwell, If that faint murmur be the last farewell, If Fate unite the faithful but to part, Why is their memory sacred to the heart? Why does the brother of my childhood seem Restored awhile in every pleasing dream? Why do I joy the lonely spot to view, By artless friendship bless'd when life was new?

Eternal HOPE! when yonder spheres sublime Peal'd their first notes to sound the march of Time,

Thy joyous youth began-but not to fade.-
When all the sister planets have decay'd;
When rapt in fire the realms of ether glow,
And Heaven's last thunder shakes the world
below;

Thou, undismay'd, shalt o'er the ruins smile,
And light thy torch at Nature's funeral pile.

SONG.

TO THE EVENING STAR.

STAR that bringest home the bee,
And sett'st the weary laborer free!
If any star shed peace, 'tis thou,
That send'st it from above,
Appearing when Heaven's breath and brow
Are sweet as hers we love.

Come to the luxuriant skies,
While the landscape's odors rise,
Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard,
And songs, when toil is done,
From cottages whose smoke unstirr'd
Curls yellow in the sun.

Star of love's soft interviews,
Parted lovers on thee muse;
Their remembrancer in Heaven
Of thrilling vows thou art,
Too delicious to be riven
By absence from the heart.

GERTRUDE OF WYOMING.

Most of the popular histories of England, as well as of the American war, give an authentic account of the desolation of Wyoming, in Pennsylvania, which took place in 1778, by an incursion of the Indians. The Scenery and Incidents of the following Poem are connected with that event. The testimonies of his

torians and travellers concur in describing the infant

colony as one of the happiest spots of human existence, for the hospitable and innocent manners of the inhabitants, the beauty of the country, and the luxuriant fertility of the soil and climate. In an evil hour, the junction of European with Indian arms, converted this terrestrial paradise into a frightful waste. Mr. Isaac Weld informs us, that the ruins of many of the villages, perforated with balls, and bearing marks of conflagration were still preserved by the

recent inhabitants, when he travelled through America in 1796.

PART I.

I.

ON Susquehanna's side, fair Wyoming! Although the wild-flower on thy ruined wall And roofless homes, a sad remembrance bring Of what thy gentle people did befall; Yet thou wert once the loveliest land of all That see the Atlantic wave their morn restore. Sweet land! may I thy lost delights recall, And paint thy Gertrude in her bowers of yore, Whose beauty was the love of Pennsylvania's shore !

II.

Delightful Wyoming! beneath thy skies,
The happy shepherd swains had nought to do
But feed their flocks on green declivities,
Or skim perchance thy lake with light canoe,
From morn, till evening's sweeter pastime grew,
With timbrel, when beneath the forests brown,
Thy lovely maidens would the dance renew:
And aye those sunny mountains half-way down
Would echo flagelet from some romantic town.

III.

Then, where on Indian hills the daylight takes
His leave, how might you the flamingo' see
Disporting like a meteor on the lakes-
And playful squirrel on his nut-grown tree:
And every sound of life was full of glee,
From merry mock-bird's song, or hum of men;
While heark'ning, fearing nought their revelry,
The wild deer arch'd his neck from glades, and then
Unhunted, sought his woods and wilderness again.

IV.

And scarce had Wyoming of war or crime
Heard, but in transatlantic story rung,
For here the exile met from ev'ry clime,
And spoke in friendship ev'ry distant tongue :
Men from the blood of warring Europe sprung,
Were but divided by the running brook;
And happy where no Rhenish trumpet sung,
On plains no sieging mine's volcano shook,
The blue-eyed German changed his sword to
pruning-hook.

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I boast no song in magic wonders rife,
But yet, O Nature! is there nought to prize,
Familiar in thy bosom-scenes of life?
And dwells in daylight truth's salubrious skies
No form with which the soul may sympathize?
Young, innocent, on whose sweet forehead mild
The parted ringlet shone in simplest guise,
An inmate in the home of Albert smiled,
Or blest his noonday walk-she was his only child.
X.

The rose of England bloom'd on Gertrude's cheek. What though these shades had seen her birth, her sire

A Briton's independence taught to seek
Far western worlds; and there his household fire
The light of social love did long inspire,
And many a halcyon day he lived to see
Unbroken, but by one misfortune dire,

* Scotland.

The great whirlpool of the Western Hebrides.

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