From the importunate request of a few individuals, I assume the difficult task of writing a concise history of my life. But to open a scene of all the past occurrences of my life I shall not undertake, since I should fail by more than two-thirds in the matter. But if you will condescend to read it, I will endeavor to give a slight specimen entirely clear of exaggeration. A tedious and prolix detail in the matter may not be of any expected, since there is necessarily so much particularity required in a biographical narrative.
I was born in Northampton county, N C., near the line of Virginia, and within four miles of the Roanoke River; the property of William Horton, senior, who also owned my mother, and the whole stock of her children, which were five before me, all girls, but not of one father. I am the oldest child that my mother had by her second husband, and she had
four younger than myself, one boy and three girls. But to account for my age is beyond the reach of my power. I was early fond of music, with an extraordinary appetite for singing lively times, for which I was a little remarkable. In the course of a few years after my birth, from the sterility of his land, my old master assumed the notion to move into Chatham, a more fertile and fresh part of country recently settled, and whose waters were far more healthy and agreeable. I here become a cow-boy, which I followed for perhaps ten years in succession, or more. In the course of this disagreeable occupation, I became fond of hearing people read; but being nothing but a poor cow-boy, I had but little or no thought of ever being able to read or spell one word or sentence in any book whatever. My mother discovered my anxiety for books, and strove to encourage my plan; but she, having left her husband behind, was so hard run to make a little shift for herself, that she could give me no assistance in that case. At length I took resolution to learn the alphabet at all events; and lighting by chance at times with some opportunities of being in the presence of school children, I learnt the letters by heart; and fortunately afterwards got hold of some
old parts of spelling books abounding with these elements, which I learnt with but little difficulty. And by this time, my brother was deeply excited by the assiduity which he discovered in me, to learn himself; and some of his partial friends strove to put him before me, and I in a stump now, and a sorry instrument to work with at that. But still my brother never could keep time with me. He was indeed an ostentatious youth, and of a far more attractive person than myself, more forward in manly show and early became fond of popularity to an astonishing degree for one of his age and capacity. He strove hard on the wing of ambition to soar above me, and could write a respectable fist before I could form the first letter with a pen, or barely knew the use of a goose-quill. And I must say that he was quite a remarkable youth, as studious as a judge, but much too full of vain lounging among the fair sex.
But to return to the earlier spring of my progress. Though blundering, I became a far better reader than he; but we were indeed both remarkable for boys of color, and hard raising. On well nigh every Sabbath during the year, did I retire away in the summer season to some shady and lonely recess, when I
could stammer over the dim and promiscuous syllables in my old black and tattered spelling book, sometimes a piece of one, and then of another; nor would I scarcely spare the time to return to my ordinary meals, being so truly engaged with my book. And by close application to my book at night, my visage became considerally emaciated by extreme perspiration, having no lucubratory aparatus, no candle, no lamp, nor even light-wood, being chiefly raised in oaky woods. Hence I had to sit sweating and smoking over my incompetent bark or brush light, almost exhausted by the heat of the fire, and almost suffocated with smoke; consequently from Monday morning I anticipated with joy the approach of the next Sabbath, that I might again retire to the pleasant umbrage of the woods, whither I was used to dwell or spend the most of the day with ceaseless investigation over my book. A number strove to dissuade me from my plan, and had the presumption to tell me that I was a vain fool to attempt learning to read with as little chance as I had. Playboys importunately insisted on my abandoning my foolish theory, and go with them on streams, desport, and sacrifice the day in athletic folly, or alibatic levity. Nevertheless
did I persevere with an indefatigable resolution, at the risk of success. But ah! the oppositions with which I contended are too tedious to relate, but not too formidable to surmount; and I verily believe that those obstacles had an auspicious tendency to waft me, as on pacific gales, above the storms of envy and the calumniating scourge of emulation, from which literary imagination often sinks beneath its dignity, and instruction languishes at the shrine of vanity. I reached the threatening heights of literature, and braved in a manner the clouds of disgust which reared in thunders under my feet. This brings to mind the verse of an author on the adventurous seaman.
"The
wandering sailor ploughs the main,
A
competence in life to gain;
The
threatening waves around him foam,
'Till
flattering fancy wafts him home."
For the overthrow and downfal of my scheme had been repeatedly threatened. But with defiance I accomplished the arduous task of spelling (for thus it was with me,) having no facilitating assistance. From this I entered into reading lessons with triumph. I became very fond of reading parts of the New Testament,
such as I could pick up as they lay about at random; but I soon became more fond of reading verses, Wesley's old hymns, and other peices of poetry from various authors. I became found of it to that degree, that whenever I chanced to light on a piece of paper, so common to be lying about, I would pick it up in order to examine it whether it was written in that curious style or not. If it was not, unless some remarkable prose, I threw it aside; and if it was, I as carefully preserved it as I would a piece of money. At length I began to wonder whether it was possible that I ever could be so fortunate as to compose in that manner. I fell to work in my head, and composed several undigested pieces, which I retained in my mind, for I knew nothing about writing with a pen, also without the least grammatical knowledge, a few lines of which I yet retain. I will give you the following specimen. On one very calm Sabbath morning, a while before the time of preaching, I undertook to compose a divine hymn, being under some serious impression of mind:
Rise
up, my soul and let us go
Up
to the gospel feast;
Gird
on the garment white as snow,
To
join and be a guest.
Dost
thou not hear the trumpet call
For
thee, my soul, for thee?
Not
only thee, my soul, but all,
May
rise and enter free.
The other part I cannot now
recollect. But in the course of some eight or ten months, under similar pensive
impressions, I composed the following:
Master
we perish if thou sleep,
We
know not whence to fly;
The
thunder seems to rock the deep,
Death
frowns from all the sky.
He
rose, he ran, and looking out,
He
said, ye seas, be still;
What
art thou, cruel storm about?
All
silenced at his will.
Dost
thou not know that thou art mine,
And
all thy liquid stores;
Who
ordered first the sun to shine
And
gild thy swelling shores.
My
smile is but the death of harm,
Whilst
riding on the wind,
My
power restrains the thunder's arm,
Which
dies in chains confined.
After having read the travel of Israel from Egypt to the Red Red Sea, where they triumphantly arrive on the opposite bank, I was excited to compose the following few lines:
Sing,
O ye ransom'd, shout and tell
What
God has done for ye;
The
horses and their riders
fell
And
perish'd in the sea.
Look
back, the vain Egyptian dies
Whilst
plunging from the shore;
He
groans, he sinks, but not to rise,
King
Pharaoh is no more.
Many other pieces did I compose, which have long since slipped my recollection, and some perhaps better than those before you. During this mental conflict no person was apprised of my views except my brother, who rather surmised it, being often in converse with me, and who was equally emulous for literatures and strove to rival me. Though
he learnt to read very well for one of color, it seems that his genius did not direct him towards Parnassus, for he was rather a Josephus than a Homer; though he could write very well before I could form the first letter as above stated, for I devoted most of my opportunities to the study of composing or trying to compose. At any critical juncture, when any thing momentous transpired, such as death, misfortune, disappointment, and the like, it generally passed off from my mind like the chanting of birds after a storm, for my mind was then more deeply inspired than at other periods.
One thing is to be lamented much; that is, that ever I was raised in a family or neighborhood inclined to dissipation, or that the foul seed should have been sown in the bosom of youth, to stifle the growth of uncultivated genius, which like a torch lifted from a cell in the midst of rude inclement winds, which, instead of kindling its blaze, blows it out. My old master, being an eminent farmer, who had acquired a competent stock of living through his own prudence and industry, did not descend to the particularity of schooling his children at any high rate; hence it is clear that he cared less for the improvement of the mind
of his servants. In fact, he was a man who aspired to a great deal of elaborate business, and carried me into measures almost beyond my physical ability. Often has he called me with my fellow laborers to his door to get the ordinary dram, of which he was much too fond himself; and we, willing to copy the example, partook freely in order to brave the storms of hardship, and thought it an honor to be intoxicated. And it was then the case with the most of people; for they were like savages, who think little or nothing of the result of lewd conduct. Nay, in those days, when the stream of intemperance was little regarded, the living had rather pour a libation on the bier of the plead than to hear a solemn funeral preached from the hallowed lips of a divine; for Bacchus was honored far more than Ceres, and they would rather impair the fences of fertile lands in their inebriating course than to assist a prudent farmer in cultivating a field for the space of an hour.
Those days resembled the days of martyrdom, and all christendom seemed to be relapsing into dissipation; and libertinism, obscenity and profanation were in their full career; and the common conversation was impregnated with droll blasphemy. In those days sensual
gratification was prohibited by few; for drinking, I had almost said, was a catholic toleration, and from 1800 to 1810 there was scarcely a page of exemplary conduct laid before my eyes. Hence it was inevitably my misfortune to become a votary to that growing evil; and like a Saul, I was almost ready to hold the garments of an abominable rabble in their public sacrilege, to whom the tender of a book was offensive, especially to those who followed distilling on the Sabbath in the midst of a crowd of profligate sots, gambling around, regardless of demon, or Deity! Such scenes I have witnessed with any own eyes, when not a sunday school was planted in all the surrounding vicinities.
My old master having come to the conclusion to confer part of his servants on his children, lots were cast, and his son James fell heir to me. He was then living on Northampton, in the winter of 1814. In 1815 he moved into Chatham, when my opportunities became a little expanded. Having got in the way of carrying fruit to the college at Chapel Hill on the Sabbath, the collegians who, for their diversion, were fond of pranking with the country servants who resorted there for the same purpose that I did, began also to
prank with me. But somehow or other they discovered a spark of genius in me, either by discourse or other means, which excited their curiosity, and they often eagerly insisted on me to spout, as they called it. This inspired in me a kind of enthusiastic pride I was indeed too full of vain egotism, which always discovers the gloom of ignorance, or dims the lustre of popular distinction. I would stand forth and address myself extempore before them, as an orator of inspired promptitude. But I soon found it an object of aversion, and considered myself nothing but a public ignoramus. Hence I abandoned my foolish harangues, and began to speak of poetry, which lifted these still higher on the wing of astonishment; all eyes were on me, and all ears were open. Many were at first incredulous; but the experiment of acrostics established it as an incontestable fact. Hence my fame soon circulated like a stream throughout the college. Many of these acrostics I composed at the handle of the plough, and retained them in my head, (being unable to write,) until an opportunity offered, when I dictated, whilst one of the gentlemen would serve as my emanuensis. I have composed love pieces in verse for courtiers from all parts
of the state, and acrostics on the names of many of the tip top belles of Virginia, South Carolina and Georgia. But those criticising gentlemen saw plainly what I lacked, and many of them very generously gave me such books as they considered useful in my case, which I received with much gratitude, and improved according to my limited opportunities. Among, these gentlemen the following names occur to me: Mr. Robert Gilliam, Mr. Augustus Washington, Mr. Cornelius Roberson, Mr. Augustus Alston, Mr. Benjamin Long, Mr. William Harden, Mr. Merryfort, Mr. Augustus Moore, Mr. Thomas Pipkin, Mr. A. Rencher, Mr. Ellerbee, Mr. Gilmer, Mr. William Pickett, Mr. Leonidas Polk, Mr. Samuel Hinton, Mr. Pain, Mr. Steward, Mr. Gatlin, Mr. J. Hogan, Mr. John Pew, Messrs W. and J. Haywood, and several more whose names have slipped my memory; all of whom were equally liberal to me, and to them I ascribe my lean grammatical studies. Among the books given me were Murray's English Grammar and its accordant branches; Johnson's Dictionary in miniature, and also Walker's and Sheridan's, and parts of others. And other books of use they gave me, which I had no chance to peruse
minutely. Milton's Paradise Lost, Thompson's Seasons, parts of Homer's Illiad and Virgil's Aenead, Beauties of Shakespear, Beauties of Byron, part of Plutarch, Morse's Geography, the Columbian Orator, Snowden's History of the Revolution, Young's Night Thoughts, and some others, which my concentration of business did not suffer me to pursue with any scientific regularity.
Mr. Augustus Alston first laid (as he said) the low price of twenty-five cents on my compositions each, which was unanimously established, and has been kept up ever since; but some gentlemen extremely generous, have given me from fifty to seventy-five cents, besides many decent and respectable suits of clothes, professing that they would not suffer me to pass otherwise and write for them.
But there is one thing with which I am sorry to charge many of these gentlemen. Before the moral evil of excessive drinking had been impressed upon my mind, they flattered me into the belief that it would hang me on the wings of new inspiration, which would waft me into regions of poetical perfection. And I am not a little astonished that nature and reason had not taught me better before, after having walked so long on a line which plainly
dictated and read to me, though young, the lesson of human destruction. This realizes the truth of the sentiment in the address of the Earl of Chatham, in which he spoke of "the wretch who, after having seen the difficulties of a thousand errors, continues still to blunder;" and I have now experienced the destructive consequences of walking in such a devious line from the true centre to which I was so early attracted by-the magnet of genius. But I have discovered the beneficial effects of temperance and regularity, and fly as a penitent suppliant to the cell of private reflection, sorrowing that I ever had driven my boat of life so near the wrecking shoals of death, or that I was allured by the music of sirens that sing to ensnare the lovers of vanity.
To the much distinguished Mrs. Hentz of Boston, I owe much for the correction of many poetical errors. Being a professional poetess herself, and a lover of genius, she discovered my little uncultivated talent, and was moved by pity to uncover to me the beauties of correctness, together with the true importance of the object to which I aspired. She was extremely pleased with the dirge which I wrote on the death of her much lamented
primogenial infant, and for which she gave me much credit and a handsome reward. Not being able to write myself, I dictated while she wrote; and while thus engaged she strove in vain to avert the inevitable tear slow trickling down her ringlet-shaded cheek. She was indeed unequivocally anxious to announce the birth of my recent and astonishing fame, and sent its blast on the gale of passage back to The frozen plains of Massachusetts.
This celebrated lady,
however, did not continue long at Chapel Hill, and I had to regret the loss of
her aid, which I shall never forget in life. As her departure from Chapel Hill,
she left behind her the laurel of Thalia blooming on my mind, and went with all
the spotless gaiety of Euphrosyne with regard to the signal services she had
done me. In gratitude for all these favors, by which she attempted to supply and
augment the stock of servile genius, I inscribe to her the following
And
bid thee live when others are no more.
When
other names are lost among the dead,
Some
genius yet may live thy fame to spread;
Memory's
fair bush shall not decline to bloom,
But
flourish fresh upon thy sacred tomb.
When
nature's crown refuses to be gay,
And
ceaseless streams have worn their rocks away;
When
age's vail shall beauty's visage mask
And
bid oblivion blot the poet's task,
Time's
final shock shall elevate thy name,
And
lift thee smiling to eternal fame.
I now commit my brief and blundering task to the inspection of the public, not pretending to warrant its philology nor its orthography, since grammarians, through criterions themselves, from precipitation do not always escape improprieties; and which little task, as before observed, I should not have assumed had it not been insisted on by some particular gentlemen, for I did not consider myself capable of such an undertaking. I trust, therefore, that my readers will rather pity than abuse the essay of their unqualified writer.
I will conclude with the following lines from the memorable pen of Mr. Linn, in
which he has done honor to the cause of illiterate genius:
"Though
in the dreary depth of gothic gloom,
Genius
will burst the fetters of her tomb;
Yet
education should direct her way,
And
nerve with firmer grasp her powerful
sway."
The author of the following miscellaneous effusions, asserts that they are original, and recently written; and they are now presented to the test of criticism, whatever may be the result. It is entirely different from his other work entitled the Museum, and has been written some time since that, and is not so large. The author is far from flattering himself with an idea of superiority, or even equality with ancient or other modern poets. He is deeply conscious of his own inferiority from the narrowness of the scope in which he has lived during the course of his past life. Few men of either a white or colored population, have been less prompted by a desire for public fame than he whose productions are now before you. He was actuated merely by pleasure and curiosity, as a call to some literary task, or as an example to remove the doubts of cavilists with regard to African genius. His birth was low, and in a neighborhood by no means populous; his raising
was rude and laborious; his exertions were cramped, and his progress obstructed from start to goal; having been ever deprived of the free use of books and other advantages to which he aspired. Hence his genius is but an unpolished diamond, and can never shine forth to the world.
Forbid to make the least attempt to soar, The stifled blaze of genius burns the more; He still prevails his drooping head to raise, Plods through the bogs, and on the mountains gaze.
I
TRUST that my friends will remember,
Whilst
I these my pleasures display,
Resort
to my musical chamber,
The
laurel crown'd desert in May.
Resort
to this chamber at leisure,
Attend
it by night and by day;
To
feast on the dainties of pleasure,
Which cannot be stinted in May.
This
place is both pleasing and moral,
A
chamber both lovely and gay,
In the shade of a ne'er fading laurel,
Whose
grace in December is May.
Abounding
with every fine story,
While
time passes hurrying away,
This
place is a banquet of glory,
Which
rings with the ditties of May.
The
chamber of Chatham and Dolly,
A
place of a comical play,
Gave
place unto Lovel's fine folly,
The
birds and sweet flowers of May.
Here
Venus attends with her lover,
Here
Floras their suitors betray,
And
uncommon secrets discover,
Which
break from the bosom of May.
Here
ever young Hebe sits smiling,
The
wonders of youth to portray,
Excluding
old age from defiling
The
lads and the lassies of May.
Call
by, little stranger, one minute,
Your joy will reward your delay;
Come,
feast with the lark and the linnet,
And
drink of the waters of May.
Walk
in, little mistress, be steady,
You
'r welcome a visit to pay;
All
things in the chamber are ready,
Resolve
to be married in May.
Deserted of her Spouse, she sat lamenting in the chamber.
Hast
thou gone and left me,
Void of faults but strictly true?
Fly
far away
Without
delay,
Adieu,
my love, adieu.
Hast
thou gone and left me,
Hence
to seek another bride?
I
must be still,
Thou
hast thy will,
The
world is free and wide.
Only
hadst thou told me
Ere
I drunk the bitter cup,
I
could with shame,
Now
bear the blame,
And
freely give thee up.
But
I'm left to ponder,
Now
in the depth of sorrow's gloom;
Like
some dull sprite,
In
dead of night,
Bewailing
o'er her tomb.
Swiftly
fly and welcome;
It is the fate of fools to rove;
With
whom I know
Wedlock
is wo
Without
the stream of love.
Where
constant love is wanting,
Pleasure
has not long to dwell;
I
view my fate,
Alas,
too late!
So
partner, fare thee well.
But,
my love, remember,
Hence
we meet and face to face,
Thy
heart shall ache,
Thy
soul shall quake,
The
wretch of all disgrace.
O
death, thy power I own,
Whose
mission was to rush,
And
snatch the rose, so quickly blown,
Down
from its native bush;
The
flower of beauty doom'd to pine,
Ascends
from this to worlds divine.
Death
is a joyful doom,
Let
tears of sorrow dry,
The
rose on earth but fades to bloom
And
blossom in the sky.
Why
should the soul resist the hand
That
bears her to celestial land.
Then,
bonny bird, farewell,
Till
hence we meet again;
Perhaps
I have not long to dwell
Within
this cumb'rous chain,
Till
on elysian shores eve meet,
Till
grief is lost and joy complete.
Oft
do I hear those windows ope
And shut with dread surprise,
And
spirits murmur as they grope,
But
break not on the eyes.
Still
fancy spies the winding sheet,
The
phantom and the shroud,
And
bids the pulse of horror beat
Throughout
my ears aloud.
Some
unknown finger thumps the door,
From
one of faltering voice,
Till
some one seems to walk the floor
With
an alarming noise.
The
drum of horror holds her sound,
Which
will not let me sleep,
When
ghastly breezes float around,
And
hidden goblins creep.
Methinks
I hear some constant groan,
The
din of all the dead,
While
trembling thus I lie alone,
Upon
this restless bed.
At
length the blaze of morning broke
On
my impatient view,
And
truth or fancy told the joke,
And
bade the night adieu.
'Twas
but the noise of prowling rats,
Which
ran with all their speed,
Pursued
in haste by hungry cats,
Which
on the vermin feed.
The
cat growl'd as she held her prey,
Which
shriek'd with all its might,
And
drove she balm of sleep away
Throughout
the live-long night.
Those
creatures crumbling off the cheese
Which
on the table lay;
Some
cats, too quick the rogues to seize,
With
rumbling lost their prey.
Thus
man is often his own elf,
Who
makes the night his ghost,
And
shrinks with horror from himself,
Which
is to fear the most.
I'll
love thee as along as I live,
Whate'er
thy condition may be;
All
else but my life would I give,
That
thou wast as partial to me.
I
love thee because thou art fair,
And fancy no other beside;
I
languish thy pleasures to share,
Whatever
my life may betide.
I'll
love thee when youth's vital beam
Grows
dim on the visage of cares;
And
trace back on time's rapid stream,
Thy
beauty when sinking in years.
Though
nature no longer is gay,
With blooms which the simple adore,
Let
virtue forbid me to say,
That
Cath'rine is lovely no more.
The
Swan which boasted mid the tide,
Whose
nest was guarded by the wave,
Floated
for pleasure till she died,
And
sunk beneath the flood to lave.
The
bird of fashion drops her wing,
The
rose-bush now declines to bloom;
The
gentle breezes of the spring
No
longer waft a sweet perfume.
Fair
beauty with those lovely eyes,
Withers
along her vital stream;
Proud
fortune leaves her throne, and flies
From
pleasure, as a flattering dream.
The
eagle of exalted fame,
Which
spreads his pinions far to sail,
Struggled
to fan his dying flame,
Till
pleasure pall'd in every gale.
And
gaudy mammon, sordid gain,
Whose
plume has faded, once so gay,
Languishes
mid her flowery train,
Whilst
pleasure flies like fumes away.
Vain
pleasures, O how short to last!
Like
leaves which quick to ashes burn;
Which
kindle from the slightest blast,
And
slight to nothing hence return.
It
lifts the poor man from his cell
To
fortune's bright alcove;
Its
mighty sway few, few can tell,
Mid
envious foes it conquers ill;
There's
nothing half like love.
Ye
weary strangers, void of rest,
Who
late through life have strove,
Like
the late bird which seeks its nest,
If
you would hence in truth be blest,
Light
on the bough of love.
The
vagrant plebeian, void of friends,
Constrain'd
through wilds to rove,
On
this his safety whole depends,
One
faithful smile his trouble ends,
A
smile of constant love.
Thus
did a captured wretch complain,
Imploring heaven above,
Till
one with sympathetic pain,
Flew
to his arms and broke the chain,
And grief took flight from love.
Let
clouds of danger rise and roar,
And
hope's firm pillars move;
With
storms behind and death before,
O grant me this, I crave no more,
There's
nothing half like love.
When
nature wakes soft pity's coo
The
hawk deserts the dove,
Compassion
melts the creature through,
With
palpitations felt by few,
The
wrecking throbs of love.
Let
surly discord take its flight
From
wedlock's peaceful grove,
While
union breaks the arm of fight,
With
darkness swallow'd up in light,
O
what is there like love.
Thou
mayst retire, but think of me
When
thou art gone afar,
Where'er
in life thy travels be,
If
tost along the brackish sea,
Or
borne upon the car.
Thou
mayst retire, I care not where,
Thy
name my theme shall be;
With
thee in heart I shall be there,
Content
thy good or ill to share,
If
dead to lodge with thee.
Thou
mayst retire beyond the deep,
And leave thy sister train,
To
roam the wilds where dangers sleep,
And
leave affection sad to weep
In
bitterness and pain.
Thou
mayst retire, and yet be glad
To
leave me thus alone,
Lamenting
and bewailing sad;
Farewell,
thy sunk deluded lad
May
rise when thou art gone.
'Tis sweet to think of home.
When
from my native clime,
Mid
lonely vallies pensive far I roam,
Mid
rocks and hills where waters roll sublime,
'Tis
sweet to think of home.
My
retrospective gaze
Bounds
on a dark horizon far behind,
But
yet the stars of homely pleasures blaze
And
glimmer on my mind.
When
pealing thunders roll,
And
ruffian winds howl, threat'ning life with gloom,
To
Heaven's kind hand I then commit the whole,
And
smile to think of home.
But
cease, my pensive soul,
To
languish at departure's gloomy shrine;
Still
look in front and hail the joyful goal,
The
pleasure teeming line.
When
on the deep wide sea
I
wander, sailing mid the swelling foam,
Tost
from the land by many a long degree,
O,
then I think of thee.
I
never shall forget
The
by-gone pleasures of my native shore,
Until
the sun of life forbears to set,
And
pain is known no more.
When
nature seems to weep,
And
life hangs trembling o'er the watery tomb,
Hope
lifts her peaceful sail to brave the deep,
And
bids me think of home.
My
favorite pigeon rest,
Nor
on the plane of sorrow drop thy train,
But
on the bough of hope erect thy nest,
Till
friends shall meet again.
Though
in the hermit's cell,
Where
eager friends to cheer me fail to come,
Where
Zeph'rus seems a joyless tale to tell,
No
thought is sweet but home.
The
joy of meeting one so fair,
Inspires
the present stream of song;
A
bonny belle,
That
few excell,
And
one with whom I few compare,
Though
out of sight so long.
It
is a cause of much delight,
When
lads and lasses meet again;
But,
bonny belle,
No
long to dwell,
For
soon, upon the wing of flight,
We
haste away in pain.
That
long hid form I smile to trace,
A
star emerging out of gloom,
Exalted
belle,
Whose
powers impell,
And
draw the heart by every grace,
The
queen of every bloom.
Long
out of sight, but still in mind,
Eternal
me'mry holds its grasp,
Still,
bonny belle,
'Tis
sweet to tell
Of
thee, when I am left behind
In
sorrow's lonely clasp.
Sweet
on the house top falls the gentle shower,
When
jet black darkness crowns the silent hour,
When shrill the owlet pours her hollow tone,
Like
some lost child sequester'd and alone,
When
Will's bewildering wisp begins to flare,
And
Philomela breathes her dulcet air,
'Tis
sweet to listen to her nightly tune,
Deprived
of star-light or the smiling moon.
When
deadly winds sweep round the rural shed,
And
tell of strangers lost, without a bed,
Fond
sympathy invokes her dol'rous lay,
And pleasure steals in sorrow's gloom away,
Till
fost'ring Somnus bids my eyes to close,
And
smiling visions open to repose;
Still
on my soothing couch I lie at ease,
Still
round my chamber flows the whistling breeze,
Still
in the chain of sleep I lie confined,
To
all the threat'ning ills of life resign'd,
Regardless
of the wand'ring elfe of night,
While
phantoms break on my immortal sight.
The trump of morning bids my slumbers end,
While
from a flood of rest I straight ascend,
When
on a busy world I cast my eyes,
And
think of nightly slumbers with surprise.
See
sad deluded love, in years too late,
With
tears desponding o'er the tomb of fate,
While
dusky evening's veil excludes the light
Which
in the morning broke upon his sight.
He
now regrets his vain, his fruitless plan,
And
sadly wonders at the faults of man.
'Tis
now from beauty's torch he wheels aside,
And strives to soar above affection's tide;
'Tis now that sorrow feeds the worm of pain
With
tears which never can the loss regain;
'Tis
now he drinks the wormwood and the gall,
And
all the sweets of early pleasures pall,
When
from his breast the hope of fortune flies,
The
songs of transport languish into sighs;
Fond,
lovely rose, that beamed as she blew,
Of
all the charms of youth the most untrue,
She,
with delusive smiles, prevail'd to move
This silly heart into the snare of love;
Then
like a flower closed against the bee,
Folds
her arms and turns her back on me.
When
on my fancy's eye her smiles she shed,
The
torch by which deluded love was led,
Then,
like a lark, from boyhood's maze I soar'd,
And
thus in song her flattering smiles adored.
My
heart was then by fondling love betray'd,
A
thousand pleasures bloom'd but soon to fade,
From
joy to joy my heart exulting flew,
In
quest of one, though fair, yet far from true.
Throughout
our rambles much we find;
The
bee trees burst with honey;
Wild
birds we tame of every kind,
At
once they seem to be resign'd;
I
know but one that lags behind,
There's
nothing lags but money.
The
woods afford us much supply,
The
opossum, coon, and coney;
They
all are tame and venture nigh,
Regardless
of the public eye,
I
know but one among them shy,
There's
nothing shy but money.
And
she lies in the bankrupt shade;
The
cunning fox is funny;
When
thus the public debts are paid,
Deceitful
cash is not afraid,
Where
funds are hid for private trade,
There's
nothing paid but money.
Then
let us roam the woods along,
And
drive the coon and coney;
Our
lead is good, our powder strong,
To
shoot the pigeons as they throng,
But
sing no more the idle song,
Nor
prowl the chase for money.
I
know her story-telling eye
Has
more expression than her tongue;
And
from that heart-extorted sigh,
At
once the peal of love is rung.
When
that soft eye lets fall a tear
Of
doating fondness as we part,
The
stream is from a cause sincere,
And
issues from a melting heart.
What
shall her fluttering pulse restrain,
The
life-watch beating from her soul,
When
all the power of hate is slain,
And
love permits it no control.
When
said her tongue, I wish thee well,
Her
eye declared it must be true;
And
every sentence seem'd to tell
The
tale of sorrow told by few.
When
low she bow'd and wheel'd aside,
I
saw her blushing temples fade;
Her
smiles were sunk in sorrow's tide,
But
love was in her eye betray'd.
'Tis
sweet to trace the setting sun
Wheel
blushing down the west;
When
his diurnal race is run,
The
traveller stops the gloom to shun,
And
lodge his bones to rest.
Far
from the eye he sinks apace,
But
still throws back his light
From
oceans of resplendent grace,
Whence
sleeping vesper paints her face,
And
bids the sun good night.
To
those hesperian fields by night
My
thoughts in vision stray,
Like
spirits stealing into light,
From
gloom upon the wing of flight,
Soaring
from time away.
Our
eagle, with his pinions furl'd,
Takes
his departing peep,
And
hails the occidental world,
Swift
round whose base the globes are whirl'd,
Whilst
weary creatures sleep.
The
king of day rides on,
To
give the placid morning birth;
On
wheels of glory moves his throne,
Whose
light adorns the earth.
When
once his limpid maid
Has
the imperial course begun,
The
lark deserts the dusky glade,
And
soars to meet the sun.
Up
from the orient deep,
Aurora
mounts without delay,
With
brooms of light the plains to sweep,
And
purge the gloom away.
Ye
ghostly scenes give way,
Our king is coming now in sight,
Bearing
the diadem of day,
Whose
crest expels the night.
Thus
we, like birds, retreat
To
groves, and hide from ev'ry eye;
Our
slumb'ring dust will rise and meet
Its
morning in the sky.
The
immaterial sun,
Now
hid within empyreal gloom,
Will
break forth on a brighter throne,
And
call us from the tomb.
Sweet
memory, like a pleasing dream,
Still lends a dull and feeble ray;
For
ages with her vestige teems,
When
beauty's trace is worn away.
When
pleasure, with her harps unstrung,
Sits
silent to be heard no more,
Or
leaves them on the willows hung,
And
pass-time glee forever o'er;
Still
back in smiles thy glory steals
With
ev'ning dew drops from thine eye;
The
twilight bursting from thy wheels,
Ascends
and bids oblivion fly.
Memory,
thy bush prevails to bloom,
Design'd
to fade, no, never, never,
Will
stamp thy vestige on the tomb,
And
bid th' immortal live forever.
When
youth's bright sun has once declined
And
bid his smiling day expire,
Mem'ry,
thy torch steals up behind,
And
sets thy hidden stars on fire.
Come,
thou queen of every creature,
Nature
calls thee to her arms ;
Love
sits gay on every feature,
Teeming
with a thousand charms.
Meet
me mid the wreathing bowers,
Greet
me in the citron grove,
Where
I saw the belle of flowers
Dealing
with the blooms of love.
Hark!
the lowly dove of Sharon,
Bids
thee rise and come away,
From
a vale both dry and barren,
Come
to one where life is gay.
Come,
thou queen of all the forest,
Fair
Feronia, mountain glee,
Lovelier
than the garden florist,
Or
the goddess of the bee.
Come,
Sterculus, and with pleasure,
Fertilize
the teeming field;
From
thy straw, dissolved at leisure,
Bid
the lea her bounty yield.
Come,
thou queen of every creature,
Nature
calls thee to her arms;
Love
sits gay on every feature,
Teeming
with a thousand charms.
Hark!
from the mighty Hero's tomb,
I
hear a voice proclaim!
A
sound which fills the world with gloom,
But
magnifies his name.
His
flight from time let braves deplore,
And
wail from state to state,
And
sound abroad from shore to shore,
The
death of one so great!
He
scorn'd to live a captured slave,
And
fought his passage through;
He
dies, the prince of all the brave,
And
bids the world adieu!
Sing
to the mem'ry of his power,
Ye
vagrant mountaineers,
Ye
rustic peasants drop a shower
Of
love for him in tears.
He
wields the glittering sword no more,
With
that transpiercing eye;
Ceases
to roam the mountain o'er,
And
gets him down to die!
Still
let the nation spread his fame,
While
marching from his tomb;
Aloud
let all the world proclaim,
Jackson,
forever bloom.
No
longer to the world confin'd,
He
goes down like a star;
He
sets, and leaves his friends behind
To
rein the steed of war.
Hark!
from the mighty Hero's tomb,
I
hear a voice proclaim!
A
sound which fills the world with gloom,
But
magnifies his name!
Salute
the august train! a scene so grand,
With
every tuneful band;
The
mighty brave,
His
country bound to save,
Extends
his aiding hand;
For
joy his vot'ries hoop and stamp,
Excited
by the blaze of pomp!
Let
ev'ry eye
The
scene descry,
The
sons of freedom's land.
They
look ten thousand stars! lamp tumbler blaze,
To
give the Hero praise!
Immortal
Clay,
The
cause is to pourtray!
Your
tuneful voices raise;
The
lights of our Columbian sun,
Break
from his patriotic throne;
Let
all admire
The
faithful sire,
The
chief musician plays.
Ye
bustling crowds give way, proclaims the drum,
And
give the Patriot room;
The
cannon's sound,
The
blast of trumpets bound,
Be
this our father's home;
Now
let the best musician play,
A
skillful tune for Henry Clay!
Let
every ear
With
transport hear!
The
President is come.
Let
sister states greet the Columbian feast,
With
each admiring guest;
Thou
art our choice!
Let
ev'ry joyful voice,
Sound
from the east to west;
Let
haughty Albion's lion roar,
The
eagle must prevail to soar;
And
in lovely form,
Above
the storm,
Erect
her peaceful nest.
Beyond
each proud empire she throws her eye!
Which
lifted to the sky,
No
thunders roll,
To
agitate her soul,
Beneath
her feet they fly!
Let
skillful fingers sweep the lyre,
Strike
ev'ry ear! set hearts on fire!
Let
monarchs sleep
Beyond
the deep,
And
howling faction die.
Nor
hence forget the scene applauding day,
When
every heart was gay;
The
universal swell
Rush'd
from the loud town bell;
In
awful, grand array,
We
see them form the bright parade;
And
hark, a gladdening march is play'd!
Along
the street,
The
theme is sweet,
For
every voice is Clay.
To
the Capitol the low and upland peers
Resort
with princely fears,
And
homage pay;
A
loud huzza for Clay!
Falls
on our ears;
Loud
from his lips the thunders roll,
And
fill with wonder every soul;
Round
the sire of state
All
concentrate,
And
every mortal hears.
'Tis
the hope of the noble defeated;
The
aim of the marksman is vain;
The
wish of destruction completed,
The
soldier eternally slain.
When
winter succeeds to the summer,
The
bird is too chilly to sing;
No
music is play'd for the drummer,
No
carol is heard on the wing.
The
court of a nation forsaken,
An
edifice stripp'd of its dome,
Its
fame from her pinnacle shaken,
Like
the sigh heaving downfall of Rome.
Fall'n,
fall'n is the chief of the witty,
The
prince of republican power;
The
star-crown of Washington City
Descends
his political tower.
The
gold-plated seat is bespoken,
The
brave of the west is before;
The
bowl at the fountain is broken,
The
music of fame is no more.
No
longer a wonderful story
Is
told for the brave whig to hear,
Whose
sun leaves his circuit of glory,
Or
sinks from the light of his sphere.
When
on my cottage falls the placid shower,
When
ev'ning calls the labourer home to rest,
When
glad the bee deserts the humid flower,
O
then the bird assumes her peaceful nest.
When
sable shadows grow unshapely tall,
And
Sol's resplendent wheel descends the west,
The
knell of respiration tolls for all,
And
Hesper smiles upon the linnet's nest.
When
o'er the mountain bounds the fair gazell,
The
night bird tells her day-departing jest,
She
gladly leaves her melancholy dell,
And spreads her pinions o'er the linnet's nest.
Then
harmless Dian spreads her lucid sail,
And glides through ether with her silver crest,
Bidding
the watchful bird still pour her tale,
And
cheer the happy linnet on her nest.
Thus
may some guardian angel bear her light,
And
o'er thy tomb, departed genius, rest,
Whilst
thou shalt take thy long eternal flight,
And
leave some faithful bird to guard thy nest.
When
Tiger left his native yard,
He
did not many ills regard,
A
fleet and harmless cur;
Indeed,
he was a trusty dog,
And
did not through the pastures prog;
The
grazing flocks to stir, poor dog,
The
grazing flocks to stir.
He
through a field by chance was led,
In
quest of game not far ahead,
And
made one active leap;
When
all at once, alarm'd, he spied,
A
creature welt'ring on its side,
A
deadly wounded sheep, alas!
A
deadly wounded sheep.
He
there was fill'd with sudden fear,
Apprized
of lurking danger near,
And
there he left his trail;
Indeed,
he was afraid to yelp,
Nor
could he grant the creature help,
But
wheel'd and drop'd his tail, poor dog,
But
wheel'd and drop'd his tail.
It
was his pass-time, pride and fun,
At
morn the nimble hare to run,
When
frost was on the grass;
Returning
home who should he meet?
The
weather's owner, coming fleet,
Who
scorn'd to let him pass, alas!
Who
scorn'd to let him pass.
Tiger
could but his bristles raise,
A
surly compliment he pays,
Insulted
shows his wrath;
Returns
a just defensive growl,
And
does not turn aside to prowl,
But
onward keeps the path, poor dog,
But
onward keeps the path.
The
raging owner found the brute,
But
could afford it no recruit,
Nor
raise it up to stand;
'Twas
mangled by some other dogs,
A
set of detrimental rogues,
Raised
up at no command, alas!
Raised
up at no command.
Sagacious
Tiger left his bogs,
But
bore the blame of other dogs,
With
powder, fire and ball;
They
kill'd the poor, unlawful game,
And
then came back and eat the same ;
But
Tiger paid for all, poor dog,
But
Tiger paid for all.
Let
ev'ry harmless dog beware
Lest
he be taken in the snare,
And
scorn such fields to roam;
A
creature may be fraught with grace,
And
suffer for the vile and base,
By
straggling off from home, alas!
By
straggling off from home.
The
blood of creatures oft is spilt,
Who
die without a shade of guilt;
Look
out, or cease to roam;
Whilst
up and down the world he plays
For
pleasure, man in danger strays
Without
a friend from home, alas!
Without
a friend from home.
What
hast thou ever done for me?
Defeated
every good endeavor;
I
never can through life agree
To
place my confidence in thee,
Not
ever, no, never!
Often
have I thy steam admired,
Thou
nothing hast avail'd me ever;
Vain have I thought myself inspired,
Say,
have I else but pain acquired?
Not
ever, no, never!
No
earthly good, no stream of health,
Flows
from thy fount, thou cheerful giver;
From
thee, affluence sinks to stealth,
From
thee I pluck no bloom of health,
Whatever,
no, never!
Thou
canst impart a nobel mind,
Power
from my tongue flows like a river;
The
gas flows dead, I'm left behind,
To
all that's evil down confined,
To
flourish more never!
With
thee I must through life complain,
Thy
powers at large will union sever;
Disgorge
no more thy killing bane,
The
bird hope flies from thee in pain,
To
return more never!
Though
with an angel's tongue
I
set on fire the congregations all,
'Tis
but a brazen bell that I have rung,
And
I to nothing fall;
My
theme is but an idle air
If
Rosabella is not there,
Though
I in thunders rave,
And
hurl the blaze of oratoric flowers,
Others
I move, but fail myself to save
With
my declaiming powers;
I
sink, alas! I know not where,
If
Rosabella is not there.
Though
I point out the way,
And
closely circumscribe the path to heaven,
And
pour my melting prayer without delay,
And
vow my sins forgiven,
I
sink into the gloom despair
If
Rosabella is not there,
Though
I may mountains move,
And
make the vallies vocal with my song,
I'm
vain without a stream of mystic love,
For
all my heart is wrong;
I've
laid myself a cruel snare,
If
Rosabella is not there.
From
bibliothic stores,
I
fly, proclaiming heaven from land to land,
Or
cross the seas and reach their distant shores,
Mid
Gothic groups to stand;
O,
let me of myself beware,
If
Rosabella is not there.
Our
classic books must fail,
And
with their flowery tongues to ashes burn,
And
not one groat a mortal wit avail
Upon
his last return;
Be
this the creature's faithful prayer,
That
Rosabella may be there.
This
spotless maid was born
The
babe of heaven, and cannot be defiled;
The
soul is dead and in a state forlorn
On
which she has not smiled;
Vain
are the virile and the fair,
If
Rosabella be not there.
When
other pleasures tire,
And
mortal glories fade to glow no more,
She
with the wings of truth augments her fire,
And
still prevails to soar;
All
else must die, the good and wise,
But
Rosabella never dies.
The poor countryman to a fraudulent lady professing bright christianity.
If
thou art fair, deal, lady, fair,
And
let the scales be even;
Forbid
the poising beam to rear,
And
pull thee down from heaven.
Dost
thou desire to die in peace,
For
ev'ry sin forgiven,
Give
back my right, thy weight decrease,
And
mount like mine to heaven.
Rather
give over to the poor,
Take
ten and give eleven;
Or
else be fair, I ask no more,
'Tis
all required of heaven.
And
when on thee for pay I call,
Which
is but four for seven,
Keep
nothing back, but pay it all,
It
is not hid from heaven.
Remember
hence the sentence past,
The
truth in scripture given,
Last
shall be first, and first be last,
In
time, in earth, and heaven.
When
auburn Autumn mounts the stage,
And
Summer fails her charms to yield,
Bleak
nature turns another page,
To
light the glories of the field.
At
once the vale declines to bloom,
The
forest smiles no longer gay;
Gardens
are left without perfume,
The
rose and lilly pine away.
The
orchard bows her fruitless head,
As
one divested of her store;
Or
like a queen whose train has fled,
And
left her sad to smile no more.
That
bird which breath'd her vernal song,
And
hopp'd along the flow'ry spray,
Now
silent holds her warbling tongue,
Which
dulcifies the feast of May.
But
let each bitter have its sweet,
No
change of nature is in vain;
'Tis
just alternate cold and heat,
For
time is pleasure mix'd with pain.
Psalm xc. 12.
So
teach me to regard my day,
How
small a point my life appears;
One
gleam to death the whole betrays,
A
momentary flash of years.
One
moment smiles, the scene is past,
Life's
gaudy bloom at once we shed,
And
thinly beneath affliction's blast,
Or
drop as soon among the dead.
Short
is the chain wound up at morn,
Which
oft runs down and stops at noon;
Thus
in a moment man is born,
And,
lo! the creature dies as soon.
Life's
little torch how soon forgot,
Dim
burning on its dreary shore;
Just
like that star which downwards shot,
It
glimmers and is seen no more.
Teach
me to draw this transient breath,
With
conscious awe my end to prove,
Early
to make my peace with death,
As
thus in haste from time we move.
O
heaven, through this murky vale,
Direct
me with a burning pen;
Thus
shall I on a tuneful gale
Fleet
out my threescore years and ten.
Friendship,
thou balm for ev'ry ill,
I
must aspire to thee;
Whose
breezes bid the heart be still,
And
render sweet the patient's pill,
And
set the pris'ner free.
Friendship,
it is the softest soul
Which
feels another's pain;
And
must with equal sighs condole,
While
sympathetic streamlets roll,
Which
nothing can restrain.
Not
to be nominated smart,
Of
mortals to be seen,
She
does not thus her gifts impart,
Her
aid is from a feeling heart,
A
principle within.
When
the lone stranger, forced to roam,
Comes
shiv'ring to her door,
At
once he finds a welcome home,
The
torch of grace dispels his gloom,
And
bids him grope no more.
Friendship
was never known to fail
The
voice of need to hear,
When
ruthless ills our peace assail,
When
from our hearts she draws the veil,
And
drys the falling tear.
When
dogs and devils snarl and fight,
She
hides and dwells alone;
When
friends and kindred disunite,
With
pity she surveys the right,
And
gives to each his own.
Friendship
has not a sister grace
Her
wonders to exceed;
She
is the queen of all her race,
Whose
charms the stoutest must embrace
When
in the vale of need.
Friendship
is but the feeling sigh,
The
sympathizing tear,
Constrain'd
to flow till others dry,
Nor
lets the needy soul pass by,
Nor
scorns to see or hear.
'Tis
the voice of my sister at home,
Resign'd
to the treasures above,
Inviting
the strangers to come,
And
feast at the banquet of love.
'Tis
a spirit cut loose from its chain,
'Tis
the voice of a culprit forgiven,
Restored
from a prison of pain,
With
th' sound of a concert from heaven.
'Tis
a beam from the regions of light,
A
touch of beatific fire;
A
spirit exulting for flight,
With
a strong and impatient desire.
'Tis
a drop from the ocean of love,
A
foretaste of pleasures to come,
Distill'd
from the fountain above,
The
joy which awaits her at home.
DEAR MISS: Notwithstanding the cloud of doubts which overshadows the mind of adoring fancy, when I trace that vermillion cheek, that sapphire eye of expressive softness, and that symmetrical form of grace, I am constrained to sink into a flood of admiration beneath those heavenly charms. Though, dear Miss, it may be useless to introduce a multiplicity of blandishments, which might either lead you into a field of confusion, or absorb the truth of affection in the gloom of doubts; but the bell of adulation may be told from the distance of its echo, and cannot be heard farther than seen. Dear Miss, whatever may be the final result of my adventurous progress, I now feel a propensity to embark on the ocean of chance, and expand the sail of resolution in quest of the distant shore of connubial happiness with one so truly lovely. Though, my dearest, the thunders of parental aversion may inflect the guardian index of affection from its favorite star, the deviated needle recovers its course, and still points onwards to its native poll. Though the waves of calumny may reverberate the persevering mind of the sailing lover, the morning star of
hope directs him through the gloom of trial to the object of his choice.
My
brightest hopes are mix'd with tears,
Like
hues of light and gloom;
As
when mid sun-shine rain appears,
Love
rises with a thousand fears,
To
pine and still to bloom.
When
I have told my last fond tale
In
lines of song to thee,
And
for departure spread my sail,
Say,
lovely princess, wilt thou fail
To
drop a tear for me?
O,
princess, should my votive strain
Salute
thy ear no more,
Like
one deserted on the main,
I
still shall gaze, alas! but vain,
On
wedlock's flow'ry shore.
'Tis
bitter, yet 'tis sweet,
Scratching
effects but transient ease;
Pleasure
and pain together meet,
And
vanish as they please.
My
nails, the only balm,
To
ev'ry bump are oft applied,
And
thus the rage will sweetly calm
Which
aggravates my hide.
It
soon returns again;
A
frown succeeds to ev'ry smile;
Grinning
I scratch and curse the pain,
But
grieve to be so vile.
In
fine, I know not which
Can
play the most deceitful game,
The
devil, sulphur, or the itch;
The
three are but the same.
The
devil sows the itch,
And
sulphur has a loathsome smell,
And
with my clothes as black as pitch,
I
stink where'er I dwell.
Excoriated
deep,
By
friction play'd on ev'ry part,
It
oft deprives me of my sleep,
And
plagues me to my heart.
I
loved thee from the earliest dawn,
When
first I saw thy beauty's ray;
And
will until life's eve comes on,
And
beauty's blossom fades away;
And
when all things go well with thee,
With
smiles or tears remember me.
I'll
love thee when thy morn is past
And
wheedling galantry is o'er,
When
youth is lost in age's blast,
And
beauty can ascend no more;
And
when life's journey ends with thee,
O
then look back and think of me.
I'll
love thee with a smile or frown,
Mid
sorrow's gloom or pleasure's light;
And
when the chain of life runs down,
Pursue
thy last eternal flight;
When
thou hast spread thy wing to flee,
Still,
still a moment wait for me.
I
love thee for those sparkling eyes,
To
which my fondness was betray'd,
Bearing
the tincture of the skies,
To
glow when other beauties fade;
And
when they sink too low to see,
Reflect an azure beam on me.
Ha,
tott'ring Johny, strut and boast,
But
think of what your feathers cost;
Your
crowing days are short at most,
You
bloom but soon to fade;
Surely
you could not stand so wide,
If
strictly to the bottom tried,
The
wind would blow your plume aside
If
half your debts were paid.
Then
boast and bear the crack,
With
the sheriff at your back;
Huzza
for dandy Jack,
My
jolly fop, my Joe.
The
blue smoke from your segar flies,
Offensive
to my nose and eyes;
The
most of people would be wise
Your
presence to evade;
Your
pocket jingles loud with cash,
And
thus you cut a foppish dash,
But,
alas! dear boy, you would be trash,
If
your accounts were paid.
Then
boast and bear the crack, &c.
My
duck bill boots would look as bright,
Had
you in justice served me right;
Like
you I then could step as light,
Before
a flaunting maid;
As
nicely could I clear my throat,
And
to my tights my eyes devote;
But
I'd leave you bare without that coat,
For which you have not paid.
Then
boast and bear the crack, &c.
I'd
toss myself with a scornful air,
And
to a poor man pay no care;
I
could rock cross-leg'd on my chair
Within
the cloister shade;
I'd
gird my neck with a light cravat,
And
creaning wear my bell-crown hat;
But
away my down would fly at that,
If
once my debts were paid.
Then boast and bear the crack,
With
a sheriff at your back;
Huzza
for dandy Jack,
My
jolly fop, my Joe.
As
smoke from a volcano soars in the air,
The
soul of man discontent mounts from a sigh,
Exhaled
as to heaven in mystical prayer,
Invoking
that love which forbids him to die.
Sweet
hope, lovely passion, my grief ever chase,
And
scatter the gloom which veils pleasure's bright ray,
O
lend me thy wings, and assist me to trace
The
flight of my fair one when gone far away.
When
the dim star of pleasure sets glimmering alone,
The
planet of beauty on life's dreary shore,
And
th' fair bird of fancy forever is flown,
On
pinions of haste to be heard of no more.
Hope,
tell me, dear passion, thou wilt not forget,
To
flourish still sweetly and blossom as gay,
Expelling
like morning the gloom of regret,
When
the lark of affection is gone far away.
If
hurried into some unchangeable clime,
Where
oceans of pleasure continually roll,
Far,
far from the limited borders of time,
With
a total division of body and soul.
Hope,
tell me, dear passion, which must earth survive,
That
love will be sweeter when nature is o'er,
And
still without pain though eternity live,
In
the triumph of pleasure when time is no more.
O
love, when the day-light of pleasure shall close,
Let
the vesper of death break on life's dusky even;
Let
the faint sun of time set in peace as it rose,
And
eternity open thy morning in heaven.
Then
hope, lovely passion, thy torch shall expire,
Effusing
on nature life's last feeble ray;
While
the night maid of love sets her taper on fire,
To
guard smiling beauty from time far away.
Farewell!
if ne'er I see thee more,
Though
distant calls my flight impel,
I
shall not less thy grace adore,
So
friend, forever fare thee well.
Farewell!
forever, did I say?
What,
never more thy face to see?
Then
take the last fond look to-day,
And
still to-morrow think of me.
Farewell!
alas, the tragic sound
Has
many a tender bosom torn;
While
desolation spread around,
Deserted
friendship left to mourn.
Farewell!
awakes the sleeping tear,
The
dormant rill from sorrow's eye,
Express'd
from one by nature dear,
Whose
bosom heaves the latent sigh.
Farewell!
is but departure's tale,
When
fond association ends,
And
fate expands her lofty sail,
To
show the distant flight of friends.
Alas!
and if we sure must part,
Far
separated long to dwell,
I
leave thee with a broken heart,
So
friend, forever, fare thee well.
I
leave thee, but forget thee never,
Words
cannot my feeling tell,
"Fare
thee well, and if forever,
Still
forever fare thee well."
Sad
Moscow, thy fate do I see,
Fire!
fire! in the city all cry;
Like
quails from the eagle all flee,
Escape
in a moment or die.
It
looks like the battle of Troy,
The
storm rises higher and higher;
The
scene of destruction all hearts must annoy,
The
whirlwinds, the smoke, and the fire.
The
dread conflagration rolls forth,
Augmenting
the rage of the wind,
Which
blows it from south unto north,
And
leaves but the embers behind.
It
looks like Gomorrah; the flame
Is
moving still nigher and nigher,
Aloud
from all quarters the people proclaim,
The
whirlwinds, the smoke, and the fire.
A
dead fumigation now swells,
A
blue circle darkens the air,
With
tones as the pealing of bells,
Farewell
to the brave and the fair.
O
Moscow, thou city of grace,
Consign'd
to a dread burning pyre,
From
morning to ev'ning with sorrow I trace
The
wild winds, the smoke, and the fire.
The
dogs in the kennel all howl,
The
wether takes flight with the ox,
Appal'd
on the wing is the fowl,
The
pigeon deserting her box.
With
a heart full of pain, in the night
Mid
hillocks and bogs I retire,
Through
lone, deadly vallies I steer by its light,
The
wild storm, the smoke, and the fire.
Though
far the crash breaks on my ear,
The
stars glimmer dull in the sky,
The
shrieks of the women I hear,
The
fall of the kingdom is nigh.
O
heaven, when earth is no more,
And
all things in nature expire,
May
I thus, with safety, keep distant before
The
whirlwinds, the smoke, and the fire.
Let
me die and not tremble at death,
But
smile at the close of my day,
And
then, at the flight of my breath,
Like
a bird of the morning in May,
Go
chanting away.
Let
me die without fear of the dead,
No
horrors my soul shall dismay,
And
with faith's pillow under my head,
With
defiance to mortal decay,
Go
chanting away.
Let
me die like a son of the brave,
And
martial distinction display,
Nor
shrink from a thought of the grave,
No,
but with a smile from the clay,
Go
chanting away.
Let
me die glad, regardless of pain,
No
pang to this world to betray;
And
the spirit cut loose from its chain,
So
loath in the flesh to delay,
Go
chanting away.
Let
me die, and my worst foe forgive,
When
death veils the last vital ray;
Since
I have but a moment to live,
Let
me, when the last debt I pay,
Go
chanting away.
With
tears I leave these academic bowers,
And
cease to cull the scientific flowers;
With
tears I hail the fair succeeding train,
And
take my exit with a breast of pain.
The
Fresh may trace these wonders as they smile;
The
stream of science like the river Nile,
Reflecting
mental beauties as it flows,
Which
all the charms of College life disclose;
This
sacred current as it runs refines,
Whilst
Byron sings and Shakspeare's mirror
shines.
First like a garden flower did I rise,
When
on the college bloom I cast my eyes;
I
strove to emulate each smiling gem,
Resolved
to wear the classic diadem;
But
when the Freshman's garden breeze was gone;
Around
me spread a vast extensive lawn;
'Twas
there the muse of college life begun,
Beneath
the rays of erudition's sun,
Where
study drew the mystic focus down,
And
lit the lamp of nature with renown;
There
first I heard the epic thunders roll,
And
Homer's light'ning darted through my soul.
Hard
was the task to trace each devious line,
Though
Locke and Newton bade me soar and shine;
I
sunk beneath the heat of Franklin's blaze,
And
struck the notes of philosophic praise;
With
timid thought I strove the test to stand,
Reclining
on a cultivated land,
Which
often spread beneath a college bower,
And
thus invoked the intellectual shower;
E'en
that fond sire on whose depilous crown,
The
smile of courts and states shall shed renown;
Now
far above the noise of country strife,
I
frown upon the gloom of rustic life,
Where
no pure stream of bright distinction flows,
No
mark between the thistle and the rose;
One's
like a bird encaged and bare of food,
Borne
by the fowler from his native wood,
Where
sprightly oft he sprung from spray to spray,
And
cheer'd the forest with his artless lay,
Or
fluttered o'er the purling brook at will,
Sung
in the dale or soar'd above the hill.
Such
are the liberal charms of college life,
Where
pleasure flows without a breeze of strife;
And
such would be my pain if cast away,
Without
the blooms of study to display.
Beware,
ye college birds, again beware,
And
shun the fowler with his subtile snare;
Nor
fall as one from Eden, stript of all
The
life and beauty of your native hall;
Nor
from the garden of your honor go,
Whence
all the streams of fame and wisdom flow;
Where
brooding Milton's theme purls sweet along
With
Pope upon the gales of epic song;
Where
you may trace a bland Demosthenes,
Whose
oratoric pen ne'er fails to please;
And
Plato, with immortal Cicero,
And
with the eloquence of Horace glow;
There
cull the dainties of a great Ainsworth,
Who
sets the feast of ancient language forth;
Or
glide with Ovid on his simple stream,
And
catch the heat from Virgil's rural beam;
Through
Addison you trace creation's fire,
And
all the rapid wheels of time admire;
Or
pry with Paley's theologic rays,
And
hail the hand of wisdom as you gaze;
Up Murray's pleasant hill you strive to climb,
To
gain a golden summit all sublime,
And
plod through conic sections all severe,
Which
to procure is pleasure true and dear.
The
students' pensive mind is often stung,
Whilst
blundering through the Greek and Latin tongue;
Parsing
in grammars which may suit the whole,
And
will the dialect of each control.
Now
let us take a retrospective view,
And
whilst we pause, observe a branch or two.
Geography and Botany unfold
Their
famous charms like precious seeds of gold;
Zoology
doth all her groups descry,
And
with Astronomy we soar on high;
But
pen and ink and paper all would fail,
To
write one third of this capacious tale.
Geography
presents her flowery train,
Describes
the mountain and surveys the plain,
Measures
the sounding rivers as they grow,
Unto
the trackless deeps to which they flow:
She
measures well her agriculture's stores,
Which
meet her commerce on the golden shore,
Includes
the different seasons of the year,
And
changes which pervade the atmosphere,
Treats
of the dread phenomena which rise
In
different shapes on earth, or issue from the skies;
She
points in truth to Lapland's frozen clime,
And
nicely measures all the steps of time;
Unfolds
the vast equator's burning line,
Where
all the stores of heat dissolve and shine;
Describes
the earth as unperceived she rolls,
Her
well-poised axis placed upon the poles.
Botany,
whose charms her florists well display,
Whose
lavish odours swell the pomp of May,
Whose
curling wreaths the steady box adorn,
And
fill with fragrance all the breeze of morn.
Through
various means her plants are oft applied,
Improved
by art, and well by nature tried;
Thro'
her, the stores of herbage are unroll'd,
All
which compose the vegetable world;
Even
the sensitives, which feel and shrink,
From
slightest touches, though they cannot think,
Not
yet rejoice, void of the power to fear,
Or
sense to smell, to see, to taste, or hear.
Zoology,
with her delightful strain,
Doth
well the different animals explain;
From
multipedes to emmets in the dust,
And
all the groveling reptiles of disgust;
She
well descries the filthy beetle blind,
With
insects high and low of every kind;
She
with her microscope surveys the mite,
Which
ne'er could be beheld by naked sight;
Thence
she descends into the boundless deep,
Where
dolphins play and monsters slowly creep;
Explores
the foaming main from shore to shore,
And
hears with awe the dshing sea bull roar;
Traces
enormous whales exploding high
Their
floods of briny water to the sky;
Desribes
the quadrupeds of ever shape,
The
bear, the camel, elephant and ape,
And
artful monkey, which but lack to talk,
And
like the human kind uprightly walk.
Astronomy,
with her aerial powers,
Lifts
us above this dreary globe of ours;
Throughout
the realms of ether's vast expanse,
Her
burning wings our towering minds advance;
Measures
her tropic well from line to line,
And
marks her rolling planets as they shine;
Describes
the magnitude of every star,
And
thence pursues her comets as they roll afar.
But
nature never yet was half explored,
Though
by philosopher and bard adored;
Astronomer
and naturalist expire,
And
languish that they could ascend no higher;
Expositors
of words in every tongue,
Writers
of prose and scribblers of song,
Would
fail with all their mathematic powers,
And
vainly study out their fleeting hours.
Sir
Walter Raleigh, Pen and Roberson,
With
Morse and Snowden, who are dead and gone,
They
all were, though mused their lives away,
And
left ten thousand wonders to display.
And
though the fiery chemists probe the mine
The
subterraneous bodies to define;
Though
melting flames the force of matter try,
Rocks
mix'd with brass and gold to pieces fly;
And
those who follow the electric muse,
Amidst
the wilds of vast creation loose
Themselves
like pebbles in the swelling main,
And
strive for naught these wanders to explain;
Galvin
himself, the monarch of the whole,
Would
blush his empty parchments to unroll.
These
different branches to one ocean go,
Where
all the streams of life together flow,
Where
perfect wisdom swells the tide of joy,
A
tide which must eternity employ;
A
boundless sea of love without a shore,
Whose
pleasure ebbs and flows forever more;
Volume
Divine! O thou the sacred dew,
Thy
fadeless fields see elders passing through,
Thy
constant basis must support the whole,
The
cabinet and alcove of the soul;
It
matters not through what we may have pass'd,
To
thee for sure support we fly at last;
Encyclopedias
we may wander o'er,
And
study every scientific lore,
Ancient
and modern authors we may read,
The
soul must starve or on thy pastures feed.
These
bibliothic charms would surely fall,
And
life grow dim within this college wall,
The
wheels of study in the mind would tire,
If
not supported by thy constant fire;
Greatest
of all the precepts ever taught
Maps
and vocabularies dearly bought,
Burns
with his harp, Scott, Cambell, and their flowers,
Will
shrink without the everlasting showers;
Theology,
thou sweetest science yet,
Beneath
whose boughs the silent classics sit,
And
thus imbibe the sacred rays divine,
Which
make the mitred faculty to shine;
O
for a gleam of Buck, immortal muse,
With
elder Scott and Henry to peruse;
These
lines which did a secret bliss inspire,
And
set the heads, the hearts, the tongues, on fire.
Such
is the useful graduate indeed,
Not
merely at the bar in law to plead,
Nor
a physician best to heal the flesh,
But
all the mystic power of soul and flesh;
On
such a senior let archangels smile,
And
all the students imitate his style,
Who
bears with joy the mission all divine,
The
beams of sanctitude, a Paul benign;
Whose
sacred call is to evangelise,
A
gospel prince, a legate of the skies,
Whose
bright diploma is a deed from heaven,
The
palm of love, the wreath of sins forgiven.
What
summons do I hear?
The
morning peal, departure's knell;
My
eyes let fall a friendly tear,
And
bid this place farewell.
Attending
servants come,
The
carriage wheels like thunders roar,
To
bear the pensive seniors home,
Here
to be seen no more.
Pass
one more transient night,
The
morning sweeps the college clean;
The
graduate takes his last long flight,
No
more in college seen.
The
bee, which courts the flower,
Must
with some pain itself employ,
And
then fly, at the day's last hour,
Home
to its hive with joy.
Phillip, thou art mortal!
Thou
may'st with pleasure hail the dawn,
And
greet the morning's eye;
Remember,
king, the night comes on,
The
fleeting day will soon be gone,
Not
distant, loud proclaims the funeral tone,
Phillip,
thou hast to die.
With
thee thy dame, the queen of birds,
May
spread her wing to fly;
Or
smile to trace the numerous herds,
Thunders
from the Lord of lords,
I
hear some peal surpassing human words,
Philip,
thou hast to die.
Thou
mayst thy mighty host survey
And
neighboring kings defy,
Whilst
round thy retinues flit gay,
Beneath
thy pomp's imperial ray,
Make
merry on the tide of joy to day,
To-morrow
thou shalt die.
I
heave to hear the day's last peal,
A
sorrow teeming sigh;
The
morning's flutt'ring bird has flown,
The
roses fade, so quickly blown,
The
lofty king falls robeless from his throne,
Philip
was born to die.
'Twas
thus the haughty king of France
Strove
to ascend on high;
Lifting
his adamantine lance,
He
bade his dauntless war-horse prance,
Defied
the world, and rode the car of chance,
To
rage, to fume and die.
Thus
vile, thus obstinately vain,
He
pours his distant brag,
Regardless
of his millions slain,
Regales
his pale surviving train,
Was
but wraped in his infernal chain,
Dies
on the ocean crag.
This
faithful lesson read to all
Creation,
far and nigh,
It
is the fate, from Adam's fall,
The
swain, the king, the low, and tall,
The
watchman of the grave must give the call,
Mortal,
thou hast to die.
It
well bespeaks a man beheaded, quite
Divested
of the laurel robe of life,
When
every member struggles for its base,
The
head; the power of order now recedes,
Unheeded
efforts rise on every side,
With
dull emotion rolling through the brain
Of
apprehending slaves. The flocks and herds,
In
sad confusion, now run to and fro,
And
seem to ask, distressed, the reason why
That
they are thus prostrated. Howl, ye dogs!
Ye
cattle, low! ye sheep, astonish'd, bleat!
Ye
bristling swine, trudge squealing through the glades,
Void
of an owner to impart your food!
Sad
horses, lift your heads and neigh aloud,
And
caper frantic from the dismal scene;
Mow
the last food upon your grass-clad lea,
And
leave a solitary home behind,
In
hopeless widowhood no longer gay!
The
trav'ling sun of gain his journey ends
In
unavailing pain; he sets with tears;
A
king sequester'd sinking from his throne,
Succeeded
by a train of busy friends,
Like
stars which rise with smiles, to mark the flight
Of
awful Phoebus to another world;
Stars
after stars in fleet succession rise
Into
the wide empire of fortune clear,
Regardless
of the donor of their lamps,
Like
heirs forgetful of parental care,
Without
a grateful smile or filial tear,
Redound
in rev'rence to expiring age.
But
soon parental benediction flies
Like
vivid meteors; in a moment gone,
As
though they ne'er had been. But O! the state,
The
dark suspense in which poor vassals stand,
Each
mind upon the spire of chance hangs fluctuant;
The
day of separation is at hand;
Imagination
lifts her gloomy curtains,
Like
ev'ning's mantle at the flight of day,
Thro'
which the trembling pinnacle we spy,
On
which we soon must stand with hopeful smiles,
Or
apprehending frowns; to tumble on
The
right or left forever.
On
heaven's ethereal plain,
With
hostile rage ambition first begun,
When
the arch rebel strove himself to reign
And
take Jehovah's throne.
Swift
to the fight the seraphim
On
floods of pride were seen to swim,
And
bold defy the power supreme,
And
thus their God disown.
High
on a dome of state,
From
azure fields he cast his daring eye,
Licentious
trains his magazines await,
At
whose command they fly.
The
gloom excludes celestial charms,
When
all the angels rush to arms,
Heaven
shakes beneath the vast alarms,
And
earth begins to sigh.
Eternal
mountains move,
And
seven-fold thunders rock the hills below,
While
starry throngs desert the worlds above,
Beneath
Jehovah's brow.
O
Lucifer, thou morning son,
To
glut thy pide what hast thou done?
Sing,
O ye heavens, the plague is gone,
And
weep, thou earth, for wo.
Creation
felt the fall,
And
trembling nature heav'd a dismal groan;
For
that rebellion brought her into thrall,
She
must her fate bemoan;
See
angels fall no more to rise,
And
feed the worm that never dies;
No
ear of grace can hear their cries,
And
hoarse lamenting tone.
Weak
nature lay exposed,
And
felt the wound in pleasing hate conceal'd;
And,
void of fear, the secret charm disclosed
Which
ev'ry ill reveal'd.
The
venom struck through ev'ry vein,
And
every creature felt the pain;
But
undefiled a lamb was slain,
By
which the wound was heal'd.
Bless'd
hope, when Tempe takes her last long flight,
And
leaves her lass-lorn lover to complain,
Like
Luna mantling o'er the brow of night,
Thy
glowing wing dispels the gloom of pain.
Yes,
wondrous hope, when Tempe sails afar,
Thy
vital lamp remains to burn behind,
While
by-gone pleasure, like a setting star,
Rejects
her glory o'er the twilight mind.
Thy
glowing wing was never spread to tire,
Expanded
o'er the mansion of the brave,
To
fan and set the heaving breast on fire,
That
soars in triumph from affliction's wave.
Then,
Tempe, dart along the ocean drear,
Hope
yet forbids my cheerful soul to weep,
But
marks thy passage with affection's tear,
And
hails thee on the bosom of the deep.
Farewell,
since thou wilt leave thy native shore,
I
smile to think I am not left alone;
Auspicious
hope shall yet my peace restore,
When
thou art from the beach forever gone.
Blown
up with painful care, and hard to light,
A
glimmering torch, blown in a moment out;
Suspended
by a webb, an angler's bait,
Floating
at stake along the stream of chance,
Snatch'd
from its hook by the fish of poverty.
A
silent cavern is his last abode;
The
king's repository, veil'd with gloom,
The
umbrage of a thousand oziers; bowed,
The
couch of hallowed bones, the slave's asylum,
The
brave's retreat, and end of ev'ry care.