Without it the name of the warrior were lost,
And the seaman would sink, on the wide ocean tost. And now, my dear friend, if you guess what it means, You may have the enigma for nought but your pains. 1833.
ALMIGHTY GOD! Father of heaven and earth,
Who form'd, from 'midst the vast expanse of chaos,
This spacious world-omnipotent and holy!
Before thee angels bow!-the countless host
Of those that praise thee, and that hover round
Thy sacred throne, shrink from the blaze of light,
And shadow with their wings their beaming brows,
Lest, on their senses thy transcendent glories
Burst with a stunning power, and absorb them
In one full flood of brilliance.
Oh thou! whose ever-seeing eye can pierce
The misty shades of night, and penetrate
The deep recesses of the human heart;
Parent of earth! how glorious are thy works!
Look on yon orb, whose ever-open eye
Sheds at his glance a pure, resplendent light,
Dispensing good. Night throws her sable veil
O'er hill and rock, o'er rivulet and ocean :
Then chaste Diana sheds her silver ray
O'er all: her throne, the fleecey eloud that floats
Over the vast expanse of heaven above us;
Her bright attendants are the brilliant stars,
That seem like guardian angels, who attend,
In virgin purity, to keep from ill
Our ever-rolling orb: beauty reigns over all,
And tinges nature with her softest touch.
If scenery so bright as this be here,
Oh, how can fancy paint the joys of heaven,
That pure and holy place, region of bliss!
There glides an amber stream, diffusing sweets,
And every tiny wave, which o'er the sands
Of purest gold rolls backward, washes
Some pearl or diamond, gem of dazzling beauty,
While ambrosial zephyrs fan the air.
See, yonder angel, resting on the cloud,
His beaming eye upturn'd with holy awe.
Oh list! he chaunts his great Creator's praise;
His golden harp is never hush'd by wo;
There music holds her sweet, harmonious reign.
How pure the being who calls forth that lay:
Such clear, melodious symphony
Might well awake the dead from their last sleep.
TO MY SISTER LUCRETIA.
THOUGH thy freshness and beauty are laid in the tomb,
Like the flow'ret, which droops in its verdure and bloom;
Though the halls of thy childhood now mourn thee in vain,
And thy strains will ne'er waken their echoes again;
Still o'er the fond memory they silently glide;
Still, still, thou art ours and America's pride.
Sing on, thou pure seraph, with harmony crown'd,
O'er the broad arch of heaven thy notes shall resound,
And pour the full tide of thy music along,
While a bright choir of angels re-echoes the song.
The pure elevation which beam'd from thine eye,
As it turn'd to its home, in yon fair azure sky,
Told of something unearthly,-it shone with the light
Of pure inspiration and holy delight.
"Round the rose that is wither'd a fragrance remains,
O'er beauty in ruins the mind proudly reigns.”
Thy lyre has resounded o'er ocean's broad wave,
And the tear of deep anguish been shed o'er thy grave,
But thy spirit has mounted to regions on high,
To the throne of its God, where it never can die.
1833.
WRITTEN WHEN BETWEEN ELEVEN AND TWELVE.
FAIR mortal, I linger to tell thee thy fate,
Like an angel above thy bright fortunes I wait:
Thy heart is a mixture of tender and sweet,
And thy bosom is virtue's own sacred retreat.
Simplicity soft and affection combine
To render thee lovely and almost divine.
Devoid of ambition, rest, dear one, secure,
For with thoughts so refined, and with feelings so pure,
What mortal would injure, what care would pursue
A being protected by heaven like you?
Bright beauty thou hast not, but something so fair
It may serve to protect thee from sorrow and care.
I pierce the light veil which would darken thy fate,
And angels of happiness round thee await;
I see a bright cherub supporting thy head,
While around thee the smiles of affection are shed;
I see thy aged arms around him prest,
Thy grey locks waving o'er his youthful breast-
I see thee on his tender bosom lay,
In silent pleasure breathe thy life away.
My tale is told-dear one, I linger now
To kiss with fervent love thy own fair brow.
ON the brow of the monarch in triumph I stand,
I govern each measure, I rule each command;
Without me, his kingdom to atoms would fall,
But I share not his crown, and I rule not his hall.
I dance in the meadow, and play on the stream,
And I glimmer obscurely in Luna's pale beam.
I dwell in thy bosom, I'm part of thy form,
But I ride on the tempest, and guide the fierce storm;
With the sea-nymph I rest on the moss-cover'd cliff,
And I weep with the mourner that life is so brief.
O'er the grave of the mighty in sorrow I bow,
And I rest in thy mind as thou 'rt watching me now.
Go look on the pillow of sorrow and care,
On the brow that is wither'd by darkest despair,
Stern affliction will meet you, but I am not there.
In the heart of the rich man, the court of the prince,
In the mariner's vessel, the warrior's lance,
In the tumult of war, on the brow of the fair,
Though millions surround them still I am not there.
In the home of the noble, the virtuous, the great,
In thy own lovely bosom, rejoicing I wait.
I wish I might dwell in that beautiful eye;
I wish I might float on yon pure azure sky;
I would lead you in triumph wherever I stray'd,
Where the sunbeam had lit, or the pale moon had play'd. 1834.
ESSAY ON THE SACRED WRITINGS.
THE Bible!-what is it?-every heart which has read and justly appreciated that inestimable volume cannot fail to exclaim, "This is the work of a God!" Who is there that will not admire, (although he read with a doubting mind,) its force, dignity, beauty, and simplicity? Principles so pure, precepts so sublime, and thoughts so refined, who could have formed them but one inspired by a God, or God himself? "Tis our guide, our star to lead, the herald to usher us into a glorious eternity. When the mind is overwhelmed with care, what power can soothe like this sacred volume? Its pages beaming with truth and mercy, will shed a holy light over the troubled landscape, and impart a softer swell to the billows of adversity. It is the lighthouse by whose beams we should direct our path over the gloomy waves of life. Then why neglect it? Some may think it derogatory to their earthly dignity "What will the world say?" Read it, and learn from its sublime precepts to stem the tide of worldly opinion. When all else fails you, this will remain the supporter of your rights; here is real dignity and grandeur, but it is the dignity of the soul, the grandeur of virtue, the dignity arising from a close alliance with the Deity. If He who
thundered on Mount Sinai, and caused the silver founts to flow from rocks of adamant, will deign to approach so near us, is it for us to stand aloof, wrapped in the mantle of our own insignificance, and brave the tempest of life alone? Oh! how depraved that heart must be, which such condescension will fail to affect! and how happy the bosom for ever confiding in its God! calm in the midst of afflictions, resigned while the torments of grief pour on the soul; which, though borne down by sorrow, is fortified by virtue, and looks calmly and steadily forward to the calamities which it is certain will terminate in an endless communion with its Maker.
THE DESTRUCTION OF SODOM AND GOMORRAH.
Он tremble, ye proud ones! oh tremble with fear!
For Jehovah has come in his wrath;
Stern vengeance is throned on his terrible brow,
And lightning attends on his path.
Oh shrink from the glance of his soul-quenching eye,
As he treads on the whirlwind, and comes from on high!
Oh, burst the dark shackles of sorrow and sin!
Before his dread presence in penitence bow;
Oh, dash the bright wine-cup in terror away,
And dare not to gaze on his broad flaming brow,
For the angel of mercy no longer is there,
To quiet your conscience, or soothe your despair.
The spirit of death o'er your city has pass'd,
His broad flaming weapon is waving on high;
Your sentence is heard in the whirlwind's rude blast,
'Tis written in fear on yon lightning-crown'd sky;
Oh, powerless your arm, and unwielded your lance,
As he cometh with vengeance and fire on his glance.
The bride at the altar, the prince on his throne,
The warrior secure in his strongly-built tower,
For the soft voice of music hear sorrow's deep moan,
And shrink 'neath the hand of their God in his power;
The smile on the cheek is transform'd to a tear,
But repentance is lost in bewailing and fear.
Oh, turn to your God, in this moment of dread,
For mercy may rest 'neath the frown on his brow.
Oh, haste ere each fast-failing hope shall have fled,
Oh, haste in repentance and terror to bow.
The moment of grace and repentance has pass'd;
Your entreaties for pardon are useless and vain;
The sword of destruction is levell'd at last,
And Gomorrah and Sodom are ashes again.
VERSIFICATION FROM OSSIAN.
Он thou, who rollest far above,
Round as my father's shield in war!
From whence proceed thy beams, oh sun,
Which shine for ever and afar?
All cold and pale, the feeble moon
Shrinks back, eclipsed beneath thy power;
The western wave conceals its light
At morning's bright resplendent hour.
But thou, unchanging, mov'st alone!
Oh who may thy companion be?
The rugged rocks, the mountain's fall,
But who may stand in might like thee?
The ocean shrinks and grows again,
All earthly things will fade away,
But thou for ever art the same,
Rejoicing in thy brilliant ray;
Rolling and rolling on thy way,
Enlightening worlds from day to day.
When o'er yon vault the thunders peal,
And lightning in its pathway flies;
When tempests darken o'er the world,
And cloud the once resplendent skies,
Thou rear'st on high thy noble form,
And laughest at the raging storm.
But now thou look'st to me in vain,
For I behold thy beams no more;
I languish here in darkness now,
On Erin's green and fertile shore.
I know not if thy yellow hair
Is floating on the western clouds,
Or if the fleecy veil of morn
Thy brilliant beauty lightly shrouds ;
But thou, great sun, perhaps, like me,
Shall days of rest and silence see.
Amid the clouds thy form may sleep,
Regardless of the morning's voice;
Exult then, mighty orb of day,
And in thy vigorous youth rejoice.
TO MY DEAR MAMMA.
ON RETURNING FROM A LONG VISIT TO NEW YORK.
THOUGH my lyre has been silent, dear mother, so long
That its chords are now broken, and loose, and unstrung,
If 't will call but one smile of delight to thy cheek,
I will waken the notes which so long were unsung.
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