""Twas there, while pleasure lent its charms to youth, And all was halcyon bliss, I saw-and loved,The Carolinian heard my vows of truth,
The Carolinian's throbbing heart approved.
""Twas there, when evening's mildly chastened beam,
Like early love, looked gently out and smiled,
We wandered thoughtful, while the saddening gleam
Hallowed with deeper shade the rustic wild.
"O, is there not a time when fancy leaves
Her wonted course, and wildly soars away;
When thought is rife, and cruel memory breathes
In misery's ear the joys of childhood's day?
""Tis past;-but when the warm and faithful vow,
Breathed from the heart and faltering on the ear,
Half trembling told what well the maiden knew,
O was it crime that then I knew not fear?
"Was there no presage to the bitter wo,
That soon should rive? did not compassion spare;
Was there no source for pity's stream to flow,
No guardian angel whispering kind,-" beware?"
"She sleeps and cold has gleamed this withered heart, Since first it heard the note of horror tell;
Its idol faithless,-O, that fearful start
Was quickly o'er, 'twas joy's departing knell.”
She sleeps in clay, and 'mid the fitful gleam
Of eve, 'tis said, the Carolinian steals
Along the surge of Santee's troubled stream,
And by the glimmer of the red-bolt kneels;
With arms uplift, she deprecates the day
That saw her crime; she weeps, and quick is hurled
OCCASIONED BY THE CONFLAGRATION OF THE
AT PHILADELPHIA, JAN. 24, 1822.
'Twas midnight, and the northern blast rode high; Nature lay torpid 'neath the iron power
Of chill mid-winter. From the clear cold sky,
The stars shed quickened lustre; 'twas the hour
Of brooding silence, heaviness and death;
Hushed was the Orphan's prayer,
And hushed the holy hymn.
Say, is it real,-or but the unquiet breath
Of fancy, whispering to the startled ear?
O God of Mercy! is there none to save?
No powerful arm of blest protection here;
No kindly refuge from the burning grave?
'Twas morning, and the smouldering, blackened pile,
The throb of agony, the burst of wo,
The eye of eloquence, the Orphan's tale,
Spoke the proud triumph of the midnight foe.
I wept, and long I wept; yet not for those,
Dear innocents, who fed the funeral pyre;
For them, escaped from earth and earth-born woes,
Their spirits wafted on one car of fire,
Why should I weep? No, 'twas the shivering child,
The living wretch, that claimed the pitying tear.
When lo, a form I saw, of aspect mild,
Fair CHARITY amid the throng appear!
Her magic voice bade every heart attend,
Her influence, sweet, each feeling bosom knew,
And soon the helpless Orphan found a friend,
And eyes unknown to weep were moist with Pity's dew:
Again was heard the Orphan's prayer,
"VERILY THOU ART A GOD THAT HIDEST THYSELF, O GOD OF IS THE SAVIOUR."
GOD of judgment, round thy throne
Terrors rear their awful seat;
Darkness is thy rest alone,
Thunders dwell beneath thy feet;
None can stay thy viewless power,
None avert thy dreadful rod;
Creatures of a feeble hour,
Who shall dictate to a GOD?
Blessings, bounteous, spring from thee,
To thee sings a grateful land;
Sorrows thicken,-Lord, we see
These commissioned by thy hand;
Secrets, dreadful, vast are thine,
To a mystery we bow;
Angels, worms, attend thy shrine,
Dread, inscrutable art Thou!
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