Part 2

Upon the rude rock’s barren height Shoots the pale ray of lunar light; And, streaming round its gloomy base, Bright beams the murky darkness chase.-- There, the intentive eye may trace The sparkling granite’s shining grain; The dusky flint’s conspicuous vein; And many a fragment, rudely rent When thunder shook the firmament. Let the proud sons of wealth and power In riot spend the midnight hour; In wine dissolve their cares away, And fain be vicious, to be gay. Let wealth unfold her glittering store, An hour of peace, I value more Than mines of India’s golden ore;-- Let all her pleasures sense display, That hour more rapture yields than they. In such an hour, the soul is free From shackles of mortality; In such an hour, in scenes like this, Reflection opes her store of bliss, And fancy’s bright, unclouded trance Bids, before the enraptured eyes, Light unearthly spirits dance, And many a fabled form arise In recording memory’s glance.

XXI

O’er all the landscape’s varied scene My footsteps wander’d; up the green; Thro’ tangled forest spreading wide; Along the mountain’s echoing side; Through vales where streams pellucid glide; O’er lawns the forest groves between, Whence, dim, the mountain’s head is seen, Embosom’d in a misty veil, In giant strength it views the dale; O’er the soft landscape’s tranquil form Frowns, midst the terrors of the storm, Scorns the low beauties of the vale, And bares its forehead to the gale. Such he, whose high, ambitious mind Sighs for an empire unconfined; The path of blood, and danger braves, To tyrannise a land of slaves; Who stems, with iron nerve, the tide, To raise his empire’s tow’ring pride; Who scorns the humble vale of peace, Retirement, and domestic ease; No joy within his bosom glows, To virtue cold as Alpine snows; No blessing falls upon his head, For him no fervant prayer is said; Unknown to him the soul serene, The smiling eye, the cheerful mein; Peace flies his bosom, fell despair Fixes her fiend-like impress there;-- None weep his fall, none dress his bier, Or heave for him one sigh sincere; Nor love, nor friendship’s soothing power Attend his dissolution’s hour.

XXIII

The Macedonian’s restless mood Deluged the world in kindred blood. Not half the globe in fetters chain’d, Could sate him, while the rest remain’d. Unmeasured, as earth’s farthest bound, Ambition, still new conquest found; But still, though lord of every soil, Enrich’d by every kingdom’s spoil, Unknown to him the pure delight, Of deeds approved in virtue’s sight; Blood mark’d the progress of his fame, And terror waits upon his name.

XXIV

The Roman, whose resistless hand Spread war to Britain’s distant land; Bade Rome’s brave eagles, proudly sweep O’er every strand, o’er every deep, And after thousand perils brav’d, His country’s liberties enslaved:-- Count not the nations he subdued; Count not the toils his strength withstood; Count not his honest martial fame, To fix a stamp to Cæsar’s name! Mark but the moral of his end, Beneath the poinard of his friend.

XXV

But tranquil scenes, from vice apart, Infuse their influence in the heart; Instruct the mind, delight the eye, And soften disappointment’s sigh; Well did I know, no future bliss, Midst busy crouds, could equal this, Well did my bosom’s rapture tell No future hours would please so well; Yet oft, a vagrant wish would rise, To breath the air of foreign skies; Still would I heave a half formed sigh, On other scenes to feast my eye, Extend o’er earth my raptured view, And search creation’s beauties through; Oh had that wish but been suppress’d! That sigh ne’er heav’d my infant breast, Still had I in retirement dwelt, And quiet’s tranquil influence felt.

XXVI

I gaz’d upon the pale moon’s face; I sought the meteor’s path to trace; I counted every orb of light, That gem’d the azure vault of night; I gaz’d o’er all the starry train ’Till softly, sleep came o’er my brain. My senses sunk in soft repose, Bright visions to my sight arose.

XXVII

The moon has fled upon the hill, No more it gilds the murm’ring rill; The stars are faint, and dimly seen, Unlighted by their lovely queen; The magic of the night is past, And morning’s rays are coming fast; In the grey skirtings of the east, Across the ocean’s waveless breast, Faint streaks of doubtful light appear, Betok’ning Phœbus’s chariot near, The mountains in the spreading light, Gleam from their dark and cloudy height; Stretch shadowy, o’er the landscape wide, And tremble on the ebbing tide. From the low dewy vale’s retreat, Light clouds of mist the morning greet; Now, stronger from the orient streaming, O’er nature’s breast the sun is beaming; The glittering woods enliven’d smile, The fields resound the voice of toil, Light songsters flutter in the groves, And pleasure o’er the woodland roves: Hark! o’er the valley, soft and clear The rustic song swells on the ear; The song by health and joy inspired, In hearts with nature’s beauties fired.

XXVIII

Is there, among the giddy throng Who heedless sweep time’s course along,-- One, who such scenes unmoved has view’d, Nor felt his childhood’s joys renew’d, Whose eye has on such beauties dwelt, And his cold bosom never felt Its thoughts with solemn power refined, And rapture steal upon his mind? No pure emotions fill his soul; No bright reflections o’er it roll; ’Tis form’d in dark, and savage mould, No genial virtues there unfold. But sombre, as the glooms of night, The forms that please its callous sight; Cold to each virtue’s hallowed feeling, The heart that nature cannot warm, That owns not, round each fibre stealing, In lonely wilds, her secret charm, Chaseing every cloud of sadness! Yielding calm and placid gladness. ’Tis nature prompts each noble aim, Each softer grace is nature’s claim, Each trait, from varied nature caught, Fix’d in the mind, with her is fraught: The hardy Swiss, from mountain rock, As hardy stems the battle shock; Italia’s soft and verdant plains Repeat the lute’s melodious strains; Each nation, wheresoe’er you range, Change as the scenes of nature change.

XXIX

And thou, my country, lov’d so dear, Land of free hearts, and faith sincere, Fair freedom’s blest, congenial home, Thou landmark in an age of gloom; Claim’st, from the gales that round thee sweep, Thy forests wild, thy summits steep, Thy rushing torents rudely swelling, The rocks, thy mighty eagle’s dwelling;-- A hardy, independant band, The bulwark of thy favor’d land.

XXX

When the bright arms of Albion bore Rude war, to thy affrighted shore; When Britain’s cross, in warlike form, Lower’d oe’r thee like a thunder storm; Then, from their wild, uncouth domain The hardy patriots sallied forth, Display’d, on bloody battle plain, Their generous ardor, loyal worth; There nature in her bosom wild, Had nurs’d her patriotic child, Who gave my native soil a name, Undying as creations frame. His was the valor that imparts Its influence to his followers’ hearts; His was the skill his foes to foil In every art, escape each toil, Insure success by wise delay, Or sudden snatch the prize away.

XXXI

In childhood, to my listening ear, O! WASHINGTON! thy name was dear; Embalm’d in every freeman’s breast, The memory of thy deeds shall rest; The first on glory’s radiant line, In after days, thy name shall shine, The freeman’s beacon blaze of war, Columbia’s proudly beaming star. First in the senate’s grave debate; First at the troubled helm of state; Thy name shall fill the future page, The greatest of the present age.

XXXII

Such were the charms that pleas’d my eye, When infant years flew swiftly by. Past are those scenes, those days are fled, Those joys are sleeping with the dead; The world has oped her gaudy store Of pleasures, unconceived before; Far from my childhood’s happy home, My wand’ring footsteps widely roam. Ah; to whatever clime I stray, Fond memory still shall point the way, To the lone, undisturb’d retreat, Where sped life’s morning, bright and fleet,-- Where childhood’s hours were gaily spent With virtue, peace, and sweet content. The beauties of a lovelier sky Speak less of heaven to my eye, The verdure of a distant plain, The billows of a foreign main, Raise not the rapture of delight, Like scenes that charm our infant sight.

XXXIII

Oh home! thou dearest, loveliest spot, However bleak, however wild!-- Thy mem’ry time can never blot, Whate’er thro’ life may be my lot. Still, thou shalt charm thy wand’ring child; Tho’ many a ling’ring year has past, Since thy fond circle shed the tear, (To one bright eye it was the last) And many heav’d a sigh sincere, That sorrow, genuine sorrow started, When from thy blest retreats I parted;-- Still, tho’ the wreaths that fancy braided In thy lov’d bosom, long have faded, Those friends who lov’d my infancy, Claim still my bosom’s warmest sigh, They love me still, no fate can sever That faithful bond that bides for ever; A mother’s fond unfeigning love, Fails only, with the throb of life, It cannot false, or faithless prove, By wo unmov’d, unaw’d by strife. Oh dearer far than wealth, or fame, Is a lov’d mother’s honor’d name,-- It leads us in our early way, Ere reason lends its guardian ray; It points to virtue’s bright reward, It bids us shun deceitful vice, Persuasion drops from every word, And love attunes that heavenly voice.

XXXIV

But he, whose pure affection blest With friendship’s flame my days of rest, My brother--generous, brave, and gay,[A] Where sleep his limbs in dull decay? Enshrin’d not were his relics cold, O’er his deep grave no prayer was told; No sigh breath’d softly o’er his bier, And none, save strangers, shed a tear; A last sad tear, at life’s dark close, The end of all our joys and woes. There famine’s meagre power was nigh, Sunk was the cheek, the hollow eye, Rob’d of its lustre, dimly view’d One mighty sweep of billows rude; No happy isle strikes on its fading beam, Faintly its orb emits a dying gleam; He turns, instinctive, his receding sight, Towards that dear land where first he saw the light. Then did remembrance, to his anguish’d heart, Each youthful scene, with all its joys impart; Barb’d every pang that rent his laboring breast, And death’s pale form in tenfold horrors drest: Then, came that tender, momentary thought, With wildest, deepest, mortal anguish fraught, It dwelt on those, who, in the morn of life Had blest his boyhood, free from noise and strife: Then, as his last, his lonely prayers arise, On the wild blast, he struggles, gasps, and dies!-- Midst coral caves, in ocean’s bosom deep, Brother belov’d! O tranquil be thy sleep! Round the gay clusters of the green Ladrones, The sea-gale sighs, the rushing billow moans, There murm’rings soft, shall lull thy form to rest; Thy soul shall dwell in regions of the blest.

[A] One of the company of the ship Resource, lost in the China seas, Nov. 20th, 1818.

XXXV

How oft, did hope thy blest return pourtray, And bid me dwell upon that joyous day, When once again, from every danger free, Thy bounding vessel from the stormy sea, Should to my arms, thy much lov’d form restore, To taste each blessing of thy native shore; To charm thy bosom after years of pain, And ceaseless labor for unstable gain; Oft, in fond fancy, would I seem to hear Thy tale of sorrow murm’ring in my ear; How the wild tempest toss’d thy ship on high, And fate seem’d brooding in the whirlwind’s sigh; How swift she flew before the lightning breeze, And swept resistless o’er the foaming seas; Or where in polar region’s wintry reign, Where endless frost o’er nature binds its chain, The stiffen’d canvass whistled in the blast, And the vex’d cordage lash’d the lonely mast; How in the fairest, most enchanting scenes, Where blooming China spreads her living greens, Her citron forests, and her Orange bowers, Her vines of plenty, rich in fruit, and flowers; Still, still, thy home was dearest, loveliest still, And fond remembrance oft thy eyes would fill: But fled the hope; no more thy comely form, With rapt’rous gladness, shall my bosom warm; Never, again, shall I those features trace, That join’d to harmonize thy manly face;-- Entomb’d, unhonor’d, tho’ thy bones may lie, Thy fate shall claim the deeply-breathing sigh; Far distant, sunk in ocean’s caverns drear, For thee, snail stream the sympathizing tear.

XXXVI

O virtue! ever be my guide, Whatever storms my life betide! May I, where’er my wand’rings lead, Still scorn dishonor’s thriftless deed, Still glory in a spotless name, My wishes few, my passions tame; Still, may my native country be Dearer than foreign climes, to me: Still, may the mem’ry of my sires My bosom fill with patriot fires; Awake Columbia’s spirit there, And prompt, her weal, and wo to share; O who! that bears a human heart, Would basely shun an active part, In day of danger, and of dread, When foes their native soil invade, Would mark their country drench’d in blood, Nor pant to join the sanguine flood. To die, or conquer in her cause, And win fair virtue’s warm applause; To plant, upon the tott’ring breach, Her eagle banner stain’d with gore; To pour the life-stream on the beach, Ere foot of foeman touch’d the shore, Where freedom dwells forevermore.

XXXVII

So will her sons, supremely brave, Rejoice in vict’ry or the grave; Howe’er around the world they rove, Still, they their native soil will love; The spark, from thee, great WASHINGTON! First breath’d, shall warm each patriot son, Raise in their breasts the lasting fire, That ev’n in death, shall ne’er expire; But, from their cold remains arise, The flame of future victories.

XXXVIII

The lay that memory, lenient goddess, lent, Is ended, and my form, that fondly bent O’er the wild tones that swell my untaught lyre, Has ceased, extinct the momentary fire; Mute is the voice, that erewhile tuned the lays, That sung, dear distant home, thy honest praise. Oh when again, shall I thy scenes review, And each fond tie of tenderness renew; Roam once again, along thy lovely stream; Court, on thy hills, the moon’s first glitt’ring beam; Dwell on the beauties of thy landscape wide; And hear the torrent, on thy mountain side: Tired of the busy, of the bustling scene, My wishes dwell along thy circled green; Bound o’er the intervening vast of space, And all the beauties of thy landscape trace;-- Tho far removed, my native grove, from thee, My faithful heart midst thy wild scenes will be, When fancy lends her wings of loveliest hue, And past delights come rushing to the view;-- Mark the sequester’d beauties of thy vales, And breathe again thy healthful mountain gales; Remembrance, sweetly, every charm shall bring, That woke delight, in youth’s gay radiant spring; The dearest blessing of my life shall be, The lasting mem’ry, and the love of thee.

A MOTHER’S LOVE.

I

There is a feeling, warm and true As that of seraphims above, It sheds its balm like Hermon’s dew; It is a tender mother’s love.

II

Bright is the pure incipient flame, That warms the breast of ardent youth, And dear the passion nought can tame, Inspired by beauty, virtue, truth.

III

Sweet is the sound of friendship’s voice, That bids each pulse to rapture move; That bids each barren scene rejoice, But sweeter far a mother’s love.

IV

Fond is the feeling, that inspires With filial love, the tender child, With gratitude his bosom fires To her, who on his boyhood smil’d.

V

But placid, pure, and undefiled; (By nature is the fabric wove) By nature giv’n the savage wild, Or christian; is a mother’s love.

VI

Mark! where of rosy health bereft, Emaciate, wan, and deadly pale, (The blood its dying cheek has left,) The infant lifts its feeble wail.

VII

And see! the mother by its side, Sunk in dejected, tearless woe, As thro’ its veins, the ebbing tide, She views decline, with gradual flow.

VIII

No sorrowing accent strikes the ear, To tell the workings of her grief; No sob is heard, no falling tear Her burning anguish yield relief.

IX

’Tis silent, as the breathless air, In midnight’s deepest, darkest shade; The hopeless shadow of despair, That asks not consolation’s aid.

X

The infant dies!--remember’d still, More precious to the soul it seems, For glowing mem’ry paints at will A thousand charms in fancy’s dreams.

XI

That form, thro’ many a lapse of years, Comes on imagination’s wing, And oft, its mother’s soul it chears, And seems an angel’s smile to bring.

XII

See yonder mother! on her breast In innocence her infant lays, In smiles that mark the soul at rest; How on his sleep she loves to gaze;

XIII

Her soul is in her placid eye, And rapture lights its beaming glance; How softly heaves her bosom’s sigh, In pure affection’s loveliest trance.

XIV

That glance, the rapture of the mind, Those sighs, her tranquil breast that move, Are pledges dear, that ever bind A mother’s pure, unaltered love.

ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY.

I

There is a flower, whose modest mein Seems every gazer’s eye to shun; It flourishes, and fades unseen, Through tepid showers, or radiant sun.

II

Where warm affection sheds its tears, O’er some lost friend’s remember’d tomb, Spite of the blast, its head it rears, And seems to court the kindred gloom.

III

No gay parterre its blossoms share, It dwells not in the busy croud, But seeks the wild heath, bleak, and bare, Or dwells in lonely solitude.

IV

It decks the humble, lowly dell, Remov’d afar, from vice, and strife, Where resignation loves to dwell, When ills betide this varying life.

V

Its blossoms bath’d in pearly dew, Its drooping crest and tearful eye, Its lovely tints of azure hue, Are emblems dear of sympathy.

VI

The wild bee, sips its honied store, Disporting on, from flower, to flower; The humming birds its sweets explore, Shut from the precincts of the bower.

VII

And such, fair maid, thy modest mein, It shuns the gazer’s vulgar eye, Nor seek’st thou, eager to be seen, The croud, where pleasure’s vot’ries hie.

VIII

But social virtues deck thy name, A sympathetic heart is thine, A soul that knows, nor guilt, nor shame, Fraught with fair virtue’s power divine.

IX

Each grace that nature can impart, Each generous feeling, too is thine, Sincerity, that foe to art, Richer than diamond of the mine.

X

May thy resemblance e’er remain, To that soft, sympathetic flower; Thy hues of grace, without a stain, Await you to your latest hour.

STANZAS.

Mark you, the stream of the cataract pouring, Its wild wave o’er the rock! Hear its rude sound, upon loud echo roaring; Earth shakes beneath its shock. Bright in the vale is its silver stream gliding; Softly it murmurs along, Sweet peace on its margent presiding, Steals the soul with her song. Mark you the wave of the rough ocean foaming! While the sky is in gloom; Death, o’er the breast of the mighty deep roaming, Gives the poor mariner’s doom. Riding relentless the pinions of æther! He aims the lightnings dart; Swells the faint cry of the desolate sailor, Sees his spirit depart.

Calm is the breast of the tempest-toss’d ocean; Hush’d is the thunder’s sound; Still is the fierce elemental commotion; Soft sigh the zephyrs round; O’er the glad scene, in its radiance appearing, The rainbow’s hues are seen; The sun from the clouds misty canopy peering, Gilds the tranquil scene.

So o’er the ocean of life as we’re sailing, Wild waves our peace annoy; Seeming, each blast of the tempest prevailing, Hope in our breast to destroy; The calm of tranquility, softly returning, Quells the storms of the breast; The rainbow of hope, in our bosom still burning, Points to eternal rest.

“THE MOON’s PALE RAY.”

The moon’s pale ray is smiling o’er us, And night is joyous in her beam; So spread around, is fancy’s dream, Tho’ life’s tempestuous sea, before us.

No breeze is up, with soft commotion To stir the wild lake’s breast; Our halcyon spirits rest, Tho’ launch’d on life’s rough heaving ocean.

Calmly, our healthful spirits slumber On youth’s unruffled wave; Tho’ soon upon our grave Affection’s wail may sound in sadest number.

When neath the sod our mould’ring bones are sleeping, O! may sorrow mark the spot, And love forget it not, But still around our graves, be hallow’d vigils keeping.

Arround our current gay, blooms each fav’ring gift of heaven, And love enchanting smiles, But beware of cupid’s wiles,-- He shades with hues of death life’s fast approaching even.

O, may our frail bark, through smoothest seas be steering; As yon moon’s pale placid beam, Be our love a happy dream, And each day our kindred spirits endearing.

ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND.

Dark night has enfolded her mantle around me, And the brightness of day to oblivion consign’d No more the wild influence of passions confound me, They have fled, and tranquility reigns o’er my mind. All nature reposed, at this moment is sleeping, And man has forgotten the turmoils of care,

Ev’n mem’ry, entranced, o’er past happiness weeping, In the “semblance of death” imaged raptures may share.

Calm solitude’s power o’er my bosom is stealing, In whispers of peace, its monition addres’t, Arouses each pure spark of genuine feeling, Allays every passion that ruffled my breast:

To the bright climes of fancy, where flowers ever blossom, On the wild wing of thought, I would hurry my flight, Shake off every sorrow that weighs on my bosom, And roam with pure spirits in regions of light.

Indulging each sweet intelectual pleasure, That fancy’s bright dream, upon man can bestow, Could I taste of the joy, in its rapturous measure, Without you to share it? believe me ah no!

Tho’ fancy may yield her precarious blessing, Tho’ wit may enliven, and talent may glow, ’Tis FRIENDSHIP alone, all our sorrows redressing, Yields the purest delight that man’s bosom can know.

THE ALTER’D LAY.

I