Chapter 2

The star is yet in the vault of heaven, But its rocks in the summer gale; And now 'tis fitful and uneven, And now 'tis deadly pale; And now 'tis wrapp'd in sulphur smoke, And quenched is its rayless beam, And now with a rattling thunder-stroke It bursts in flash and flame. As swift as the glance of the arrowy lance That the storm-spirit flings from high, The star-shot flew o'er the welkin blue, As it fell from the sheeted sky. As swift as the wind in its trail behind The elfin gallops along, The fiends of the clouds are bellowing loud, But the sylphid charm is strong; He gallops unhurt in the shower of fire, While the cloud-fiends fly from the blaze; He watches each flake till its sparks expire, And rides in the light of its rays. But he drove his steed to the lightning's speed, And caught a glimmering spark; Then wheeled around to the fairy ground, And sped through the midnight dark.

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Ouphe and goblin! imp and sprite! Elf of eve! and starry Fay! Ye that love the moon's soft light, Hither--hither wend your way; Twine ye in the jocund ring, Sing and trip it merrily, Hand to hand, and wing to wing, Round the wild witch-hazel tree.

Hail the wanderer again, With dance and song, and lute and lyre, Pure his wing and strong his chain, And doubly bright his fairy fire. Twine ye in an airy round, Brush the dew and print the lea; Skip and gambol, hop and bound, Round the wild witch-hazel tree.

The beetle guards our holy ground, He flies about the haunted place, And if mortal there be found, He hums in his ears and flaps his face; The leaf-harp sounds our roundelay, The owlet's eyes our lanterns be; Thus we sing, and dance and play, Round the wild witch-hazel tree.

But hark! from tower on tree-top high, The sentry elf his call has made, A streak is in the eastern sky, Shapes of moonlight! flit and fade! The hill-tops gleam in morning's spring, The sky-lark shakes his dappled wing, The day-glimpse glimmers on the lawn, The cock has crowed, the Fays are gone.

TO A FRIEND.

"You damn me with faint praise."

I.

Yes, faint was my applause and cold my praise, Though soul was glowing in each polished line; But nobler subjects claim the poet's lays, A brighter glory waits a muse like thine. Let amorous fools in love-sick measure pine; Let Strangford whimper on, in fancied pain, And leave to Moore his rose leaves and his vine; Be thine the task a higher crown to gain, The envied wreath that decks the patriot's holy strain.

II.

Yet not in proud triumphal song alone, Or martial ode, or sad sepulchral dirge, There needs no voice to make our glories known; There needs no voice the warrior's soul to urge To tread the bounds of nature's stormy verge; Columbia still shall win the battle's prize; But be it thine to bid her mind emerge To strike her harp, until its soul arise From the neglected shade, where low in dust it lies.

III.

Are there no scenes to touch the poet's soul? No deeds of arms to wake the lordly strain? Shall Hudson's billows unregarded roll? Has Warren fought, Montgomery died in vain? Shame! that while every mountain stream and plain Hath theme for truth's proud voice or fancy's wand, No native bard the patriot harp hath ta'en, But left to minstrels of a foreign strand To sing the beauteous scenes of nature's loveliest land.

IV.

Oh! for a seat on Appalachia's brow, That I might scan the glorious prospect round, Wild waving woods, and rolling floods below, Smooth level glades and fields with grain embrown'd, High heaving hills, with tufted forests crown'd, Rearing their tall tops to the heaven's blue dome, And emerald isles, like banners green unwound, Floating along the lake, while round them roam Bright helms of billowy blue and plumes of dancing foam.

V.

'Tis true no fairies haunt our verdant meads, No grinning imps deform our blazing hearth; Beneath the kelpie's fang no traveller bleeds, Nor gory vampyre taints our holy earth, Nor spectres stalk to frighten harmless mirth, Nor tortured demon howls adown the gale; Fair reason checks these monsters in their birth. Yet have we lay of love and horrid tale Would dim the manliest eye and make the bravest pale.

VI.

Where is the stony eye that hath not shed Compassion's heart-drops o'er the sweet Mc Rea? Through midnight's wilds by savage bandits led, "Her heart is sad--her love is far away!" Elate that lover waits the promised day When he shall clasp his blooming bride again-- Shine on, sweet visions! dreams of rapture, play! Soon the cold corse of her he loved in vain Shall blight his withered heart and fire his frenzied brain.

VII.

Romantic Wyoming! could none be found Of all that rove thy Eden groves among, To wake a native harp's untutored sound, And give thy tale of wo the voice of song? Oh! if description's cold and nerveless tongue From stranger harps such hallowed strains could call, How doubly sweet the descant wild had rung, From one who, lingering round thy ruined wall, Had plucked thy mourning flowers and wept thy timeless fall.

VIII.

The Huron chief escaped from foemen nigh, His frail bark launches on Niagara's tides, "Pride in his port, defiance in his eye," Singing his song of death the warrior glides; In vain they yell along the river sides, In vain the arrow from its sheaf is torn, Calm to his doom the willing victim rides, And, till adown the roaring torrent borne, Mocks them with gesture proud, and laughs their rage to scorn.

IX.

But if the charms of daisied hill and vale, And rolling flood, and towering rock sublime, If warrior deed or peasant's lowly tale Of love or wo should fail to wake the rhyme, If to the wildest heights of song you climb, (Tho' some who know you less, might cry, beware!) Onward! I say--your strains shall conquer time; Give your bright genius wing, and hope to share Imagination's worlds--the ocean, earth, and air.

X.

Arouse, my friend--let vivid fancy soar, Look with creative eye on nature's face, Bid airy sprites in wild Niagara roar, And view in every field a fairy race. Spur thy good Pacolet to speed apace, And spread a train of nymphs on every shore; Or if thy muse would woo a ruder grace, The Indian's evil Manitou's explore, And rear the wondrous tale of legendary lore.

XI.

Away! to Susquehannah's utmost springs, Where, throned in mountain mist, Areouski reigns, Shrouding in lurid clouds his plumeless wings, And sternly sorrowing o'er his tribes remains; His was the arm, like comet ere it wanes That tore the streamy lightnings from the skies, And smote the mammoth of the southern plains; Wild with dismay the Creek affrighted flies, While in triumphant pride Kanawa's eagles rise.

XII.

Or westward far, where dark Miami wends, Seek that fair spot as yet to fame unknown; Where, when the vesper dew of heaven descends, Soft music breathes in many a melting tone, At times so sadly sweet it seems the moan Of some poor Ariel penanced in the rock; Anon a louder burst--a scream! a groan! And now amid the tempest's reeling shock, Gibber, and shriek, and wail--and fiend-like laugh and mock.

XIII.

Or climb the Pallisado's lofty brows, Were dark Omana waged the war of hell, Till, waked to wrath, the mighty spirit rose And pent the demons in their prison cell; Full on their head the uprooted mountain fell, Enclosing all within its horrid womb Straight from the teeming earth the waters swell, And pillared rocks arise in cheerless gloom Around the drear abode--their last eternal tomb!

XIV.

Be these your future themes--no more resign The soul of song to laud your lady's eyes; Go! kneel a worshipper at nature's shrine! For you her fields are green, and fair her skies! For you her rivers flow, her hills arise! And will you scorn them all, to pour forth tame And heartless lays of feigned or fancied sighs? Still will you cloud the muse? nor blush for shame To cast away renown, and hide your head from fame?

EXTRACTS FROM LEON. AN UNFINISHED POEM.

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It is a summer evening, calm and fair, A warm, yet freshening glow is in the air; Along its bank, the cool stream wanders slow, Like parting friends that linger as they go. The willows, as its waters meekly glide, Bend their dishevelled tresses to the tide, And seem to give it, with a moaning sigh, A farewell touch of tearful sympathy. Each dusky copse is clad in darkest green: A blackening mass, just edged with silver sheen From yon clear moon, who in her glassy face Seems to reflect the risings of the place. For on her still, pale orb, the eye may see Dim spots of shadowy brown, like distant tree Or far-off hillocks on a moonlight lea. The stars have lit in heaven their lamps of gold, The viewless dew falls lightly on the wold, The gentle air, that softly sweeps the leaves, A strain of faint, unearthly music weaves; As when the harp of heaven remotely plays, Or cygnet's wail--or song of sorrowing fays That float amid the moonshine glimmerings pale, On wings of woven air in some enchanted vale.

It is an eve that drops a heavenly balm, To lull the feelings to a sober calm, To bid wild passion's fiery flush depart; And smooth the troubled waters of the heart; To give a tranquil fixedness to grief, A cherished gloom, that wishes not relief.

Torn is that heart, and bitter are its throes, That cannot feel on such a night, repose; And yet one breast there is that breathes this air, An eye that wanders o'er the prospect fair, That sees yon placid moon, and the pure sky Of mild, unclouded blue; and still that eye Is thrown in restless vacancy around, Or cast, in gloomy trance, on the cold ground; And still, that breast with maddening passion burns, And hatred, love, and sorrow, rule by turns.

A lovely figure! and in happier hour, When pleasure laugh'd abroad from hall and bower, The general eye had deem'd her smiling face The brightest jewel in the courtly place: So glossy is her hair's ensabled wreath, So glowing warm the eye that burns beneath With so much graceful sweetness of address, And such a form of rounded slenderness; Ah! where is he on whom these beauties shine, But deems a spotless soul inhabits such a shrine?

And yet a keen observer might espy Strange passions lurking in her deep black eye, And in the lines of her fine lip, a soul That in its every feeling spurned control. They passed unnoted--who will stop to trace A sullying spot on beauty's sparkling face? And no one deemed, amid her glances sweet, Hers was a bosom of impetuous heat; A heart too wildly in its joys elate, Formed but to madly love--or madly hate; A spirit of strong throbs, and steadfast will; To doat, detest, to die for, or to kill; Which, like the Arab chief, would fiercely dare To stab the heart she might no longer share; And yet so tender, if he loved again, Would die to save his breast one moment's pain.

But he who cast his gaze upon her now, And read the traces written on her brow, Had scarce believed hers was that form of light That beamed like fabled wonder on the sight; Her raven hair hung down in loosen'd tress Before her wan cheek's pallid ghastliness; And, thro' its thick locks, showed the deadly white, Like marble glimpses of a tomb, at night. In fixed and horrid musings now she stands, Her eyes now bent to earth, and her cold hands, Prest to her heart, now wildly thrown on high, They wander o'er her brow--and now a sigh Breaks deep and full--and, more composedly, She half exclaims--"No! no!--it cannot be; "He loves not, never loved-- not even when "He pressed my wedded hand--I knew it then; "And yet--fool that I was--I saw he strove "In vain to kindle pity into love. "But Florence! she so loved--a sister too! "My earliest, dearest playmate--one who grew "Upon my very heart--to rend it so! "His falsehood I could bear--but hers! ah! no. "She is not false--I feel she loves me yet, "And if my boding bosom could forget "Its wild imaginings, with what sweet pain "I'd clasp my Florence to my breast again." With that came many a thought of days gone by, Remembered joys of mirthful infancy; And youth's gay frolic, and the short-lived flow Of showering tears, in childhood's fleeting wo, And life's maturer friendship--and the sense Of heart-warm, open, fearless confidence; All these came thronging with a tender call, And her own Florence mingled with them all. And softened feelings rose amid her pain, While from her eyes, the clouds, melted in gentle rain.

A hectic pleasure flushed her faded face; It fled--and deeper paleness took its place; Then a cold shudder thrill'd her--and, at last, Her lip a smile of bitter sarcasm cast, As if she scorned herself, that she could be A moment lulled by that sweet sophistry; For in that little minute memory's sting Gave word and look, sigh, gesture--every thing, To bid these dear delusive phantoms fly, And fix her fears in dreadful certainty.

It traced the very progress of their love, From the first meeting in the locust grove; When from the chase Leon came bounding there, Backing his courser with a noble air; His brown cheek flushed with healthful exercise, And his warm spirits leaping in his eyes; It told how lovely looked her sister then, To long-lost friends, and home just come again; How on her cheek the tears of meeting lay, That tear which only feeling hearts can pay; While the quick pleasure glistened in her eye, Like clouds and sunshine in an April sky; And then it told, as their acquaintance grew, How close the unseen bonds of union drew Their souls together, and how pleased they were The same blythe pastimes and delights to share; How the same chord in each at once would strike, Their taste, their wishes, and their joys alike.

All this was innocent, but soon there came Blushes and starts of consciousness and shame; That, when she entered, upon either cheek The hasty blood in guilty red would speak Of something that should not be known--and still Sighs half suppressed seemed struggling with the will. It told how oft at eve was Leon gone In moody wandering to the wood alone; And in the night, how many a broken dream Of bliss, or terror, seemed to shake his frame. How Florence too, in long abstracted fit Of soul-wrapt musing, for whole hours would sit; Nor even the power of music, friend, or book, Could chase her deep forgetfulness of look; And how, when questioned--with an indrawn sigh, In vague and far-off phrase, she made reply, And smiled and struggled to be gay and free, And then relapsed in dreaming reverie. How when of Leon she was forced to speak, Unbidden crimson mantled in her cheek; And when he entered, how her eye would swim, And strive to look on every one but him; Yet, by unconscious fascination led, In quick short glance each moment tow'rds him fled. How he, too, seemed to shun her speech and gaze, And yet he always lingered where she was; Though nothing in his aspect or his air Told that he knew she was in presence there; But an appearance of constrained distress, And a dull tongue of moveless silentness, And a down drooping eye of gloom and sadness, Oh! how unlike his former face of gladness. "'Tis plain! too plain! and I am lost," she cried; And in that thought her last good feeling died.

That thought of hopeless sorrow seemed to dart A thousand stings at once into her heart; But a strong effort quelled it, and she gave The next to hatred, vengeance, and the grave. Her face was calmly stern, and but a glare Within her eyes--there was no feature there That told what lashing fiends her inmates were; Within--there was no thought to bid her swerve From her intent--but every strained nerve Was settled and bent up with terrible force, To some deep deed, far, far beyond remorse; No glimpse of mercy's light her purpose crost, Love, nature, pity, in its depths were lost; Or lent an added fury to the ire That seared her soul with unconsuming fire; All that was dear in the wide earth was gone, She loved but two, and these she doted on With passionate ardour--and the close strong press Of woman's heart-cored, clinging tenderness; These links were torn, and now she stood alone, Bereft of all, her husband, sister--gone! Ah! who can tell that ne'er has known such fate, What wild and dreadful strength it gives to hate? What had she left? Revenge! Revenge! was there; He crushed remorse and wrestled down despair: Held his red torch to memory's page, and threw A bloody stain on every line she drew; She felt dark pleasure with her frenzy blend, And hugged him to her heart, and called him friend.

When sorrowing clouds the face of heaven deform, And hope's bright star sets darkly in the storm, Around us ghastly shapes and phantoms swim, And all beyond is formless, vague, and dim, Or life's cold barren path before us lies, A wild and weary waste of tears and sighs; From the lorn heart each sweetening solace gone, Abandoned, friendless, withered, lost, and lone; And when with keener pangs we bleed to know That hands beloved have struck the deepest blow; That friends we deemed most true, and held most dear, Have stretched the pall of death o'er pleasure's bier; Repaid our trusting faith with serpent guile, Cursed with a kiss, and stabbed beneath a smile; What then remains for souls of tender mould? One last and silent refuge, calm and cold-- A resting place for misery's gentle slave; Hearts break but once, no wrongs can reach the grave.

Rest ye, mild spirits of afflicted worth! Sweet is your slumber in the quiet earth; And soon the voice of heaven shall bid you rise To meet rewarding smiles in yonder skies. But where, for solace, shall the bosom turn For death too strong--for tears--too proudly stern? When shall the lulling dews of peace descend On hearts that cannot break and will not bend? Ah! never, never--they are doomed to feel Pains that no balm of heaven or earth can heal; To live in groans, and yield their parting breath Without a joy in life--or hope in death. Yet, for a while, one living hope remains, That nerves each fibre and the soul sustains; One desperate hope, whose agonizing throes Are bitterer far than all the worst of woes; A hope of crime and horrors, wild and strange As demon thoughts--that hope is thine, Revenge! 'Twas this that gave, oh! Ellinor, to thee A strength to bear thy matchless misery: Though the hot blood ran boiling in her brain, And rolled a tide of fire through every vein, Though many a rushing voice of blighted bliss Struck on her mental ears, like adders' hiss; That hope gave gloomy fierceness to her eye, Dash'd down the tear, repress'd the unloading sigh; Fixed her wan quivering lip, and steeled her breast To crush the hearts that robbed her own of rest.

She wound her way within a heavy shade Of arching boughs, in broad-spread leaves arrayed; Which, clustering close and thick, shut out the light, And tinged with black the shadowy robe of night; Save here and there a melancholy spark Of flickering moonshine glimmered through the dark, Cheerless and dim, as when upon a pall, Through suffering tears, the looks of sorrow fall; But opening farther on, on either side A wider space the severing trees divide; And longer gleams upon the pathway meet, And the soft grass is wet beneath her feet. And now emerging from the darksome shade, She pressed the silken carpet of the glade. Beyond the green, within its western close, A little vine-hung, leafy arbor rose, Where the pale lustre of the moony flood Dimm'd the vermillion'd woodbine's scarlet bud; And glancing through the foliage fluttering round, In tiny circles gemm'd the freckled ground. Beside the porch, beneath the friendly screen Of two tall trees, a mossy bank was seen; And all around, amid the silvery dew, The wild-wood pansy rear'd her petals blue; And gold cups and the meadow cowslip red, Upon the evening air their odours shed.

Unheeded all the grove's deep gloom had been, Unseen the moonlight brightness of the green; In vain the stream's blue burnish met her eye, Lovely its wave, but pass'd unnoticed by: The airs of heaven had breath'd around her brow Their cooling sighs--she felt them not--but now That lonely bower appeared, and with a start Convulsive shudders thrill'd her throbbing heart. For there, in days, alas! for ever gone, When love's young torch with beams of rapture shone, When she had felt her heart's impassioned swell, And almost deem'd her Leon loved as well; There had she sat, beneath the evening skies, Felt his warm kiss and heard his murmur'd sighs; Hung on his breast, caressing and carest, Her husband smiled, and Ellinor was blest.

And when his injured country's rights to shield, Blazed his red banner on the battle field, There had she lingered in the shadows dim, And sat till morning watch and thought of him; And wept to think that she might not be there, His toils, his dangers, and his wounds to share. And when the foe had bowed beneath his brand, And to his home he led his conquering band, There she first caught his long-expected face, And sprung to smile and weep in his embrace.

These scenes of bliss across her memory fled, Like lights that haunt the chambers of the dead, She saw the bower, and read the image there Of joys that had been, and of woes that were; She clench'd her hand in agony, and cast A glance of tears upon it as she past, A look of weeping sorrow--'twas the last! She check'd the gush of feeling, turned her face, And faster sped along her hurried pace. No longer now from Leon's lips were heard The sigh of bliss--the rapture breathing word; No longer now upon his features dwelt The glance that sweetly thrills--the looks that melt; No speaking gaze of fond attachment told, But all was dull and gloomy, sad and cold. Yet he was kind, or laboured to be kind, And strove to hide the workings of his mind; And cloak'd his heart, to soothe his wife's distress, Under a mask of tender gentleness. It was in vain--for ah! how light and frail To love's keen eye is falsehood's gilded veil. Sweet winning words may for a time beguile, Professions lull, and oaths deceive a while; But soon the heart, in vague suspicion tost, Must feel a void unfilled, a something lost; Something scarce heeded, and unprized till gone, Felt while unseen, and, tho' unnoticed, known: A hidden witchery, a nameless charm, Too fine for actions and for words too warm; That passing all the worthless forms of art, Eludes the sense, and only woos the heart: A hallowed spell, by fond affection wove, The mute, but matchless eloquence of love!

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Oh! there were times, when to my heart there came All that the soul can feel, or fancy frame; The summer party in the open air, When sunny eyes and cordial hearts were there; Where light came sparkling thro' the greenwood eaves, Like mirthful eyes that laugh upon the leaves; Where every bush and tree in all the scene, In wind-kiss'd wavings shake their wings of green, And all the objects round about dispense Reviving freshness to the awakened sense; The golden corslet of the humble bee, The antic kid that frolics round the lea; Or purple lance-flies circling round the place, On their light shards of green, an airy race; Or squirrel glancing from the nut-wood shade An arch black eye, half pleas'd and half afraid; Or bird quick darting through the foliage dim, Or perched and twittering on the tendril slim; Or poised in ether sailing slowly on, With plumes that change and glisten in the sun, Like rainbows fading into mist--and then, On the bright cloud renewed and changed again; Or soaring upward, while his full sweet throat Pours clear and strong a pleasure-speaking note; And sings in nature's language wild and free, His song of praise for light and liberty.