II.

Three little moons, how short! amidst the grove,
And pastoral savannas they consume!

While she, beside her buskin'd youth to rove,
Delights, in fancifully wild costume,

Her lovely brow to shade with Indian plume;
And forth in hunter-seeming vest they fare;
But not to chase the deer in forest gloom ;
'Tis but the breath of heav'n-the blessed air-

And interchange of hearts unknown, unseen to share.

What though the sportive dog oft round them note,
Or fawn, or wild bird bursting on the wing;

Yet who, in love's own presence, would devote
To death those gentle throats that wake the spring,
Or writhing from the brook its victim bring?
No!-nor let fear one little warbler rouse ;

But fed by Gertrude's hand, still let them sing,
Acquaintance of her path, amidst the boughs,

That shade ev'n now her love, and witness'd first

her vows.

IV.

Now labyrinths, which but themselves can pierce, Methinks, conduct them to some pleasant ground, Where welcome ills shut out the universe,

And pines their lawny walk encompass round; There, if a pause delicious converse found, 'Twas but when o'er each heart th' idea stole, (Perchance awhile in joy's oblivion drown'd) That come what may, while life's glad pulses roll, Indissolubly thus should soul be knit to soul.

V.

And in the visions of romantic youth,
What years of endless bliss are yet to flow!
But mortal pleasure what art thou in truth!
The torrent's smoothness, ere it dash below!
And must I change my song? and must I shew,
Sweet Wyoming! the day when thou wert doom'd,
Guiltless, to mourn thy loveliest bow'rs laid low!
When where of yesterday a garden bloom'd,
Death overspread his pall, and black'ning ashes
gloom'd.

VI.

Sad was the year, by proud oppression driv❜n,
When Transatlantic Liberty arose,

Not in the sunshine, and the smile of heav'n,
But wrapt in whirlwinds, and begirt with woes,
Amidst the strife of fratricidal foes;

Her birth star was the light of burning plains; 12
Her baptism is the weight of blood that flows
From kindred hearts-the blood of British veins-
And famine tracks her steps, and pestilential pains.

VII.

Yet, ere the storm of death had rag'd remote,
Or siege unseen in heav'n reflects its beams,

Who now each dreadful circumstance shall note,

That fills pale Gertrude's thoughts, and nightly

dreams?

Dismal to her the forge of battle gleams

Portentous light! and music's voice is dumb;
Save where the fife its shrill reveillè screams,

Or midnight streets re-echo to the drum,

That speaks of mad'ning strife, and bloodstain'd fields to come.

12 Alluding to the miseries that attended the American civil war.