Poems

Front Pages

POEMS.

POEMS;

BY THE AUTHOR OF "MORAL PIECES IN

PROSE AND VERSE."

BOSTON, PUBLISHED BY S. G. GOODRICH. ALSO, BY H. AND F. J. HUNTINGTON, HARTFORD; SOLD BY THEM AND BOWLES AND DEARBORN, BOSTON; AND G. AND C. CARVILL, NEW YORK.

MDCCCXXVII.

DISTRICT OF MASSACHUSETTS, to wit: District Clerk's Office.

Be it remembered, that on the fifth day of July, a. d. 1827, in the fifty-second year of the Independence of the United States of America, S. G. Goodrich of the said district, has deposited in this office the title of a book, the right whereof he claims as proprietor, in the words following, to wit:

"Poems; by the Author of 'Moral Pieces in Prose and Verse.'"

In conformity to the act of the Congress of the United States, entitled "An act for the encouragement of learning, by securing the copies of maps, charts and books, to the authors and proprietors of such copies, during the times therein mentioned;" and also to an act entitled "An act supplementary to an act, entitled, an act for the encouragement of learning, by securing the copies of maps, charts and books to the authors and proprietors of such copies during the times therein mentioned; and extending the benefits thereof to the arts of designing, engraving and etching historical and other prints."

JNO. W. DAVIS, Clerk of the District of Massachusetts.

BOSTON, Isaac R. Butts and Co. Printers.

CONTENTS.

Grave of the Mother of Washington

POEMS.

GRAVE OF THE MOTHER OF WASHINGTON.

Mother of him whose godlike fame The good throughout the world revere, Ah! why, without a stone, or name, Thus sleep'st thou unregarded here?

Fair pensile branches o'er thee wave, And Nature decks the chosen dell; Yet surely o'er thy hallow'd grave A nation's mournful sighs should swell!

Rome, with a burst of filial pride, The mother of her Gracchi view'd; And why should we restrain the tide Of reverential gratitude?

She to sublime Volumnia paid Her tribute of enraptured tears, When the dread chief that voice obey'd Which sternly curb'd his infant years.

Thou in the days of Sparta's might, Had'st high on her illustrious roll Been rank'd, amidst those matrons bright, Who nobly nursed the great of soul.

For disciplined in Wisdom's school, The lofty pupil own'd thy sway; And well might he be skill'd to rule, So early nurtured to obey.

No enervating arts refined To slumber lull'd his heaven-born might; No weak indulgence warp'd thy mind, To cloud a hero's path of light.

Say,—when upon thy shielding breast The saviour of his country hung, When his soft lip to thine was prest, Wooing the accents from thy tongue,

Saw'st thou, prescient, o'er his brow. The shadowy wreath of laurel start? Or, did thy nightly dream bestow High visions of his glorious part?

And when his little hands were taught By thee, in simple prayer to rise, Say,—were thy own devotions fraught With heighten'd incense for the skies?

Well may that realm confiding rest, Heroes, and mighty chiefs to see, Which finds its infant offspring blest With monitors and guides like thee.

A future age, than ours more just, With his, shall blend thy honor'd name, And rear, exulting, o'er thy dust, The monument of deathless fame.

And thither bid young mothers wend, To bless thy spirit as they rove, And learn, while o'er thy tomb they bend, For heaven to train the babes they love.

Invocation to Greece

INVOCATION TO GREECE.

Hail holy clime!—where Science rear'd her throne, And kindred arts like constellations shone, Ere from her fostering wolf's caresses dread, Rome, savage infant, rear'd her rival head; Nurse of the bard, the hero, and the sage, Too long the victim of oppression's rage; Enslaved and fetter'd by the Paynim throng, Sworn foes of science, and unknown to song; In mockery crown'd with persecution's thorn, And crush'd till courage from despair was born: We see thee bursting from thy lingering trance, Snatch the dark helm, and poise the quivering lance;

From gather'd rust thine ancient armour clear, And with thy clarion wake the warrior's ear.— —Rear, as at Salamis, thy lofty crest! Pluck the red garland from Platea's breast! Still Marathon that victor-shout retains, Whose earthquake echo shook a thousand plains; Still for thy temples Leuctra's laurel blooms, And buried heroes rend their vaulted tombs; With lightning glance thy fields of blood explore, And stalk impervious where the life-tides pour: With awful smile the impetuous souls survey, With airy shield protect their dauntless way; Their whisper'd voice unearthly rage inspires, And bids the sons be worthy of their sires.— —Lo! peaceful shades from blest Elysium throng, In spectral ranks to guard the land of song; Predict with withering curse its foemen's doom, And blend the crescent with the Persian plume.— —Dark frowns the Stagyrite;—with brow of thought Glides the meek martyr from his hemlock draught; The vine-clad Tean rears his sparkling bowl, And quaffs deep vengeance on the Moslem soul; Indignant Pericles, with haughty pain, Marks the usurping mosque, and turban'd train;— Fast by the Parthenon sad Phidias sighs. And scornful Homer rolls his sightless eyes, Hurls tuneful curses on the insulting foe, And bids anew the flames of Ilion glow. —Hail land sublime!—array'd in classic robe, Mankind thy pupil, and thy school the globe! Throngs taught by thee, in trembling ardour wait Thy doubtful struggle with disastrous fate.—

—Yet one* there was, who not with passive song, Beheld thy conflict, or bemoan'd thy wrong;— Bold to thine aid the lyre and sword he brought, And doubly arm'd, thy front of danger sought; Rear'd thy red banner o'er the Egean wave, Unseal'd his coffers, and his spirit gave. Cold rests his heart within thy hallow'd bowers, And Helle's maidens wreath its shrine with flowers.— —Genius of Greece! who drank his latest sigh, Raise toward the Queen of Isle's thy mourning eye; She marks the sons who round her sceptre crowd, Stern to their sins, but of their talents proud: Say, "for my sake thy wayward bard forgive, Since, bound with mine, his deathless name shall live; Breathe o'er his filial urn one sorrowing sigh, And in his glory let his frailties die."

To the Moon

TO THE MOON.

Hail beauteous and inconstant!—Thou who roll'st Thy silver car around the realm of night, Queen of soft hours! how fanciful art thou In equipage and vesture.—Now thou com'st With slender horn piercing the western cloud, As erst on Judah's hills, when joyous throngs With trump and festival saluted thee; Anon thy waxing crescent 'mid the host Of constellations, like some fairy boat,

Glides o'er the waveless sea; then as a bride Thou bow'st thy cheek behind a fleecy veil, Timid and fair; or, bright in regal robes, Dost bid thy full-orb'd chariot proudly roll, Sweeping with silent rein the starry path Up to the highest node,—then plunging low To seek dim Nadir in his misty cell.— 2Lov'st thou our Earth, that thou dost hold thy lamp To guide and cheer her, when the wearied Sun Forsakes her?—Sometimes, roving on, thou shedd'st The eclipsing blot ungrateful, on that sire Who feeds thy urn with light,—but sinking deep 'Neath the dark shadow of the earth dost mourn And find thy retribution. —Dost thou hold Dalliance with Ocean, that his mighty heart Tosses at thine approach, and his mad tides, Drinking thy favoring glance, more rudely lash Their rocky bulwark?—Do thy children trace Through crystal tube our coarser-featured orb Even as we gaze on thee?—With Euclid's art Perchance, from pole to pole, her sphere they span, Her sun loved tropicks—and her spreading seas Rich with their myriad isles. Perchance they mark Where India's cliffs the trembling cloud invade, Or Andes with his fiery banner flouts The empyrean,—where old Atlas towers,— Or that rough chain whence he of Carthage pour'd Terrors on Rome.—Thou, too, perchance, hast nursed Some bold Copernicus, or fondly call'd A Galileo forth, those sun-like souls

Which shone in darkness, though our darkness fail'd To comprehend them.—Can'st thou boast, like earth, A Kepler, skilful pioneer and wise?— A sage to write his name among the stars Like glorious Herschel?—or a dynasty Like great Cassini's, which from sire to son Transmitted Science as a birthright seal'd? —Rose there some lunar Horrox,—to whose glance Resplendent Venus her adventurous course Reveal'd, even in his boyhood?—some La Place Luminous as the skies he sought to read?— Thou deign'st no answer,—or I fain would ask If since thy bright creation, thou hast seen Ought like a Newton, whose admitted eye The arcana of the universe explored Light's subtle ray its mechanism disclosed, The impetuous comet his mysterious lore Unfolded,—system after system rose, Eternal wheeling thro' the immense of space, And taught him of their laws.—Even angels stood Amaz'd, as when in ancient times they saw On Sinai's top, a mortal walk with God.— —But he to whom the secrets of the skies Were whisper'd—in humility adored, Breathing with childlike reverence the prayer, —"When on yon heavens, with all their orbs, I gaze, Jehovah!—what is man?"

The Coral Insect

THE CORAL INSECT.

Toil on! toil on! ye ephemeral train, Who build in the tossing and treacherous main; Toil on,—for the wisdom of man ye mock. With your sand-based structures and domes of rock: Your columns the fathomless fountains lave, And your arches spring up to the crested wave;— Ye're a puny race, thus to boldly rear A fabric so vast, in a realm so drear.

Ye bind the deep with your secret zone, The ocean is seal'd, and the surge a stone; Fresh wreaths from the coral pavement spring, Like the terraced pride of Assyria's king; The turf looks green where the breakers roll'd, O’er the whirlpool ripens the rind of gold;— The sea-snatch'd isle is the home of men, And mountains exult where the wave hath been.

But why do ye plant 'neath the billows dark The wrecking reef for the gallant bark?— There are snares enough on the tented field, Mid the blossom'd sweets that the valleys yield; There are serpents to coil, ere the flowers are up; There 's a poison-drop in man's purest cup, There are foes that watch for his cradle breath, And why need ye sow the floods with death?

With mouldering bones the deeps are white, From the ice-clad pole to the tropicks bright;—

The mermaid hath twisted her fingers cold With the mesh of the sea-boy's curls of gold, And the gods of ocean have frown'd to see The mariner's bed in their halls of glee;— Hath earth no graves, that ye thus must spread The boundless sea for the thronging dead?

Ye build,—ye build,—but ye enter not in, Like the tribes whom the desert devour'd in their sin; From the land of promise ye fade and die, Ere its verdure gleams forth on your weary eye;— As the kings of the cloud-crown'd pyramid, Their noteless bones in oblivion hid; Ye slumber unmark'd 'mid the desolate main, While the wonder and pride of your works remain.

With wild Flowers to a sick Friend

WITH WILD FLOWERS TO A SICK FRIEND.

Rise from the dells where ye first were born, From the tangled beds of the weed and thorn, Rise! for the dews of the morn are bright, And haste away with your brows of light.— —Should the green-house patricians with gathering frown, On your plebeian vestures look haughtily down, Shrink not,—for His finger your heads hath bow'd, Who heeds the lowly and humbles the proud.— —The tardy spring, and the frosty sky, Have meted your robes with a miser's eye, And check'd the blush of your blossoms free,— With a gentler friend your home shall be;

To a kinder ear ye may tell your tale Of the zephyr's kiss and the scented vale;— Ye are charm'd! ye are charm'd! and your fragrant sigh Is health to the bosom on which ye die.

Anna Boleyn

ANNA BOLEYN.

The Axe, with which Anna Boleyn was beheaded, is still preserved in the Tower of London.

Stern minister of Fate severe! Who, drunk with beauty's blood, Defying time, dost linger here, And frown with ruffian visage drear, Like beacon on destruction's flood: Say!—when ambition's giddy dream First lured thy victim's heart aside, Why like a serpent didst thou hide Mid clustering flowers, and robes of pride Thy warning gleam? Had'st thou but once arisen in vision dread, From glory's fearful cliff her startled step had fled.

Ah! little she reck'd when St Edward's crown So heavily press'd her tresses fair, That with sleepless wrath, its thorns of care Would rankle within her couch of down! To the tyrant's bower, In her beauty's power, She came,—as a lamb to the lion's lair, As the light bird cleaves the fields of air, And carols blithe and sweet, while Treachery weaves its snare.

Think!—what were her pangs as she traced her fate On that changeful monarch's brow of hate? What were the thoughts, which in misery's hour Throng'd o'er her soul, in her dungeon tower? Regret, with pencil keen, Retouch'd the deep'ning scene: Delightful France, whose genial skies Bade her gay childhood's pleasures rise; Earl Percy's love,—his youthful grace, Her gallant brother's fond embrace, Her stately father's feudal halls, Where proud heraldic annals deck'd the ancient walls.

Wrapt in the scaffold's gloom, Brief tenant of that living tomb She stands!—the life blood chills her heart, And her tender glance from earth does part; But her infant daughter's image fair, In the smile of innocence is there, It clings to her soul mid its last despair; And the desolate queen is doom'd to know How far a mother's grief transcends a martyr's wo.

Say! did prophetic light Illume her darkening sight, Painting the future island-queen Like the fabled bird, all hearts surprising, Bright from blood-stain'd ashes rising, Wise, energetic, bold, serene? Ah no! the scroll of time Is seal'd;—and hope sublime Rests, but on those far heights, which mortals may not climb.

The dying prayer, with trembling fervor speeds, For that false monarch, by whose will she bleeds; For him, who listening on that fatal morn Hears her death signal o'er the distant lawn From the deep cannon speaking, Then springs to mirth and winds his bugle-horn, And riots while her blood is reeking;— For him she prays, in seraph tone, "Oh!—be his sins forgiven! Who raised me to an earthly throne, And sends me now, from prison lone, To be a saint in heaven."

Burial of the Young

BURIAL OF THE YOUNG.

There was an open grave,—and many an eye Look'd down upon it. Slow the sable hearse Moved on, as if reluctantly it bare The young, unwearied form to that cold couch, Which age and sorrow render sweet to man. —There seem'd a sadness in the humid air, Lifting the long grass from those verdant mounds Where slumber multitudes.— —There was a train Of young, fair females, with their brows of bloom, And shining tresses. Arm in arm they came, And stood upon the brink of that dark pit, In pensive beauty, waiting the approach Of their companion. She was wont to fly,

And meet them, as the gay bird meets the spring, Brushing the dew-drop from the morning flowers. And breathing mirth and gladness. Now she came With movements fashion'd to the deep-toned bell:— She came with mourning sire, and sorrowing friend, And tears of those who at her side were nursed By the same mother. Ah! and one was there, Who, ere the fading of the summer rose, Had hoped to greet her as his bride. But Death Arose between them. The pale lover watch'd So close her journey through the shadowy vale, That almost to his heart, the ice of death Enter'd from hers. There was a brilliant flush Of youth about her,—and her kindling eye Pour'd such unearthly light, that hope would hang Even on the archer's arrow, while it dropp'd Deep poison. Many a restless night she toil'd For that slight breath which held her from the tomb, Still wasting like a snow-wreath, which the sun Marks for his own, on some cool mountain's breast, Yet spares, and tinges long with rosy light. 2Oft o'er the musings of her silent couch, Came visions of that matron form which bent With nursing tenderness, to sooth and bless Her cradle dream: and her emaciate hand In trembling prayer she raised—that He who saved The sainted mother, would redeem the child. Was the orison lost?—Whence then that peace So dove-like, settling o'er a soul that loved Earth and its pleasures?—Whence that angel smile With which the allurements of a world so dear

Were counted and resign'd? that eloquence So fondly urging those whose hearts were full Of sublunary happiness, to seek A better portion? Whence that voice of joy, Which from the marble lip in life's last strife Burst forth, to hail her everlasting home? —Cold reasoners! be convinced. And when ye stand Where that fair brow and those unfrosted locks Return to dust,—where the young sleeper waits The resurrection morn,—Oh! lift the heart In praise to Him, who gave the victory.

On a Question proposed at the Institution of the Abbe Sicard in Paris

ON A QUESTION PROPOSED

AT THE INSTITUTION OF THE ABBA SICARD, IN PARIS,"LES SOURDS-MUETS SE TROUVENT-ILS MALHERVREUX?"

Addressed to an interesting and intelligent little girl, deprived of the powers of speech and hearing.

Oh! could the kind inquirer gaze Upon thy brow with gladness fraught, Its smile, like inspiration's rays, Would give the answer to his thought.—

And could he see thy sportive grace Soft blending with submission due,— Or note thy bosom's tenderness To every just emotion true;—

Or when some new idea glows, On the pure altar of the mind, Observe the exulting tear that flows In silent ecstacy refined;—

Thy active life,—thy look of bliss, The sparkling of thy magic eye, Would all his sceptic doubts dismiss, And bid him lay his pity by,

To bless the ear that ne'er has known The voice of censure, pride, or art; Nor trembled at that sterner tone, Which while it tortures, chills the heart;

To bless the lip that ne'er could tell Of human woes the vast amount, Nor pour those idle words that swell The terror of our last account.—

For sure the stream of silent course May flow as deep, as pure, as blest, As that which rolls in torrents hoarse, Or whitens o'er the mountain's breast,

As sweet a scene, as fair a shore, As rich a soil its tide may lave, Then joyful and accepted pour Its tribute to the mighty wave.

The Sweetness of Life

THE SWEETNESS OF LIFE.

Ah! who can tell what horrors urge the wretch To madness, who infuriate spurns the gift Of this sweet life?—For life is sweet to him Who 'neath the ceaseless lash of bondage toils,— Sweet to the sick man, to the galley-slave, To him who scorches 'neath a vertic sun, Or feels the breath of everlasting snows

Congeal his soul.—Yes! life is sweet to him Who through his dungeon-grate the scanty ray Hails, though it serve him but to mark the chains Gnawing his wasted flesh.—The mariner, Buoy'd on some fragment of his broken ship, Buffets the wave.—Wherefore?—His all is lost, And the cold world is but a wreck to him, Yet his blanch'd lip above the billow sighs That life is sweet.— Ah! life is sweet to him, The most despised and isolated wretch Who holds nor tie, nor brotherhood to man. Ye cannot wrest it from the vilest brute Or noisome reptile, but they shun with cries Your purpose, or uplift their feeble shield, As best they may, to guard their dearest boon. 2But man, creation's idol!—he, for whom Yon skies were garnish'd, and their nightly lamps Hung out,—fair earth a nursing-mother made, And ocean chain'd,—and air surcharged with balm, If but a rude blast rend his painted sails, Down, down some gulf he hurls his bark, and shuns The port of heaven.—Yet oh,—condemn him not!— Ye cannot tell how bare the scourge may lay The soul's quick nerve,—how fierce the passions boil, How dark may be the hiding of God's face, Or what demoniac forms may seize the helm Of reason, ere with suicidal haste He leap that slippery verge, which scarce firm faith Can tread unshuddering.— God of power and might! Have pity on the feeble hearts that shrink From transient wo, and so instruct them here

To bear life's discipline, that death at last, Led on by nature, not by rashness urged, May ope the gate of everlasting life.

Harvest Hymn

HARVEST HYMN.

God of Nature! God of Love! Smile upon our festive rite, Thou who bidd'st the Seasons prove Circling sources of delight.

Spring, a rainbow promise bears, Summer decks the ripening plain, Autumn sings amid his cares, Guiding home the loaded wain.

Winter with his snowy vest, Revels in their blended spoil, Lulls the wearied earth to rest, Braces man for future toil.

Morning, bright with golden rays, Evening, dark with ebon pall, Speak in varied tones Thy praise, Architect, and Sire of all!

We, for whom yon groves are drest, Yon green vales their treasures pour, Still by liberal nature blest With her most luxuriant store,

We, to whom indulgent skies Plenty, health, and peace impart. Bid in fragrant offerings rise Incense from the grateful heart.

The Rival Kings of Mohegan, contrasted with the Rival Brothers of Persia

THE RIVAL KINGS OF MOHEGAN, CONTRASTED WITH THE RIVAL BROTHERS OF PERSIA.

2Crowns are beset with thorns, And who can tell what woes their hollow orb Binds on the temples!—Yet to taste that wo, Ambition toils,—Pride strives,—Affection dies 'Neath Hatred's frown. Thus stood the red-brow'd kings, Brothers and rivals. On their father's throne Each strove to sit. Justly the nation gave The sovereignty, where Nature's voice decreed The birthright. So the eldest rose to rule His brethren of the forest. In their cares, Pursuits and dangers, with true heart he shared An equal part. The hunter's toil he loved, Like him, the patriarch's favourite son, who bore The cheering perfume of the scented field Within his garments. But the younger prince Adher'd to that pale race, who on his lands, Encroaching silently, like Rachel, sought By arts, and counterfeited tones to wrest The sceptre from him. He, with flattering words Still sooth'd their avarice,—sparing not to vow That o'er these mountains, and uncultured vales, Tall crested woods, and streams which they desired Their sway should reach.

Like Absalom he pined Before his brethren,—"Oh! that I were judge And ruler o'er you, that each one who felt Wrong or injustice, unto me might come, And I would do him right." —But the wise chiefs Look'd gravely on him,—and the hoary head Shook its white locks at the usurping prince. —Sometimes when white men lured his private ear To close debate, they to their swords would point, Vaunting these soon could make a vacant throne; And raise them high in eagerness, and say His cause was theirs.—But ever at the word A heavy sternness o'er his features came, And terribly his dark eye beam'd reproof. "One mother nursed us! and we hold it sin To shed a brother's blood." Then would he turn In anger, and in grief, as one who mourns Temptation most, when urged by those he loves. For well the invaders' courtly speech be prized, Their arts, and lore, which shamed the forest sons;— And proud of English costume,—with the gaude Of epauletted shoulder, and rich belt Whence hung the glittering sword, was pleased to flaunt. —The people loved their monarch, who, close-wrapt In robe of pliant deer-skin, with bold brow Shaded by coronet of feathery plumes, Would wheel the war-dance in its frantic round Amid the flashing of their midnight fires, Or in grave council, with high eloquence Control the spirit. —But the shaft of death Regards not titles, and the forest king

Fell like his lowliest subject. Light of heart, The expectant prince received a nation's vows, And rear'd himself to reign. But watchful Fate, As if determin'd still to mar the joys Of him who dealt in guile, with hasty hand Number'd his days. The royal forehead droop'd To dire disease, and the slight diadem Disown'd its brief companionship.—One grave Open'd for both.—Whom rivalry disjoin'd, Nature in burial, as in birth made one. Grief mark'd their obsequies, and the sad tribe Like orphans mourning, heap'd the hallow'd mould. —Not thus the Persian brothers, fired with rage Of mad ambition for their father's throne, Respected kindred ties. Not like those kings Nurtured by nature o'er her wilds to roam And to her teachings bow,—their rash swords spared That blood which through their rival breasts was pour'd From the same fountain. —On Cunaxa's plain The war they raised. Bold Artaxerxes brought His scythe-arm'd chariots, and his countless troops, Egyptians, by their ample bucklers hid, And white-robed Persians with uncover'd heads And glittering armour. Fiery Cyrus came, Proud of his allied Greeks to blood inured On Peloponnesus,—while his furious voice The Paphlagonian cavalry inspired, With rage like his.— But see! his life-tide flows Beneath his brother's javelin,—and he falls Foaming, like him of Bosworth, while his teeth Gnashing vindictive, testify the force Of hatred built on love.

The Departed Benefactress

THE DEPARTED BENEFACTRESS.

There is a friend who loves me still;—unchanged By all the errors of my devious way, When fickle fancies have my plans deranged Or hurtful follies lured my steps astray, Her tenderness remain'd:—nor would she grieve The lonely trusting one, that in her shade did live.

Amid the wayward freaks of childish haste,— Amid the wanderings of my youthful lot, When toys deluded, or when phantoms chased, Some sooth'd and promised,—then their care forgot; But one hath loved me still: the friend who sleeps Where the long herbage sighs and where remembrance weeps.

When Friendship's alter'd brow withheld its smile, When cold and stern, her cordial welcome fled; Though like a pilgrim, fainting mid his toil, Even in its pangs my struggling heart has said, One friend there is, who loves me still,—above;— The grave hath changed her form, but could not chill her love.

Reprove me not!—I trust she loves me still, Though cold, and mute, and motionless her dust, For when my heart hath felt affliction's thrill, Or swoln to bursting, mourn'd its broken trust; Soft on the breeze of heaven, a voice would sigh "Despond not thus, my child, my spirit hovers nigh."—

And in the silence of the midnight trance, In snowy robe she comes to cheer my sight; So holy, so benignant is her glance, Her brow so placid,—and her eye so bright, I know she loves me still:—and oh! that thought Shall strongly nerve my soul to do the things it ought.

Mourn ye the Righteous Dead?

MOURN YE THE RIGHTEOUS DEAD?

Yon pilgrim see, in vestments grey, Whose bleeding feet bedew his way, O'er arid sands, with want opprest, Who toiling knows no place of rest: Mourn ye, because the long sought shrine He clasps in ecstacy divine, And lays his load of sin and gloom Repentant on his Saviour's tomb?— —Behold yon ship with wrecking form Which vails her proud mast to the storm, Wild winds and waves with headlong force Impel her on her dang'rous course; The pallid crew their hope resign And powerless view the foaming brine; Mourn ye, because the tempest dies, And in her haven moor'd she lies?— —Emerging from the field of strife Where slaughter'd throngs have sold their life, Yon warrior see, with gushing veins, Who scarce his noble steed restrains,

The death-mist swims before his eyes As toward the well-known spot he flies, Where every fond affection lies.— Mourn ye, because to home restored Woman's white arms enwrap her lord, While tears and smiles with varying grace, Float o'er his cherub offspring's face? —Yet on his path of toil and wo The pilgrim from his shrine must go, The ship before the tempest strain, The warrior seek the field again, But he, whose flesh the tomb hath found, Whose spirit soars the ethereal round, From him hath change and sorrow fled,— —Why mourn ye then the righteous dead?—

Remember me

REMEMBER ME.

When morning from the damps of night Beams o'er the eye in rosy light, And calls thee forth with smile benign; Ah think!—whose heart responds to thine, And still with sympathy divine Remember me.

When gentle twilight, pure and calm Comes leaning on Reflection's arm, When o'er the throng of cares and woes Her veil of sober tint she throws Wooing the spirit to repose, Remember me.

When the first star, with cresset bright, Gleams lonely o'er the arch of night, When through the fleecy clouds that dance The moon sends forth her timid glance, Then gazing on that pure expanse, Remember me.

When mournful sighs the hollow wind And pensive thought enwraps thy mind, If e'er thy heart in sorrow's tone To musing melancholy prone, Should sigh, because it feels alone, Remember me.

When stealing to thy secret bower Devotion claims her holy hour,— When bowing o'er that sacred page Whose spirit curbs affliction's rage, Controls our youth,—sustains our age, Remember me.

Oh! yet indulge the ardent claim While Friendship's heart the wish can frame: For brief and transient is my lay, And mingling soon with kindred clay This silent lip, no more shall say Remember me.

And when in deep oblivion's shade This breathless, mouldering form is laid, If near that bed thy step should rove, With one short prayer, by feeling wove One glance of faith one tear of love Remember me.

Death of Wolsey

DEATH OF WOLSEY.

At Leicester Abbey, November 29th, 1530.

The tint of Autumn's closing day, On Leicester-Abbey shone, And pensively that fading ray Gleam'd o'er the fretted stone; While slowly 'neath its portal arch The mitred Abbot came, With crosier leading on the march Of all his ghostly train.

Each monk in sable stole appear'd, With studious care array'd, For tramp of coursers' feet was heard To echo through the glade. A martial band, with measured tread, Approach'd that lone abode, And sad and silent at their head The prelate Wolsey rode.

He, at whose nod the noble blood Of *Buckingham was shed, That princely peer, who boldly stood Next to the crowned head; He, who with arrogance unblamed St. Peter's chair had eyed, Alike for wealth and learning famed, For policy and pride.

But where the silver cross, and plume? The costly velvet pall? The gaudy train to cry, "make room For my lord cardinal!" Why doth he, with dejected air, Thus bend on earth his eye? And to the Abbot's greeting fair, Where is the prompt reply?