The Deluge, the General Resurrection, and Other Poems.

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Davis British Women Romantic Poets Series76Nancy Kushigian,General EditorCharlotte Payne,Managing EditorThe deluge, the general resurrection, and other poems, historical, descriptive, &c.Carter, Mary Hamilton, Adams, and Co.London, J. HicklinNottingham, 1838[This text was scanned from its original in the Shields Library Kohler Collection, University of California, Davis. Kohler ID no. I:206. Another copy available on microfilm as Kohler I:206mf.]

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[Title Page] THEDELUGE,THEGENERAL RESURRECTION,ANDOTHER POEMS,HISTORICAL, DESCRIPTIVE, &c.BYMARY ANN CARTER.LONDON:HAMILTON, ADAMS, AND CO.;J. HICKLIN, NOTTINGHAM.1838.INTRODUCTION.

In offering to the public the ideas and sentiments of my own mind—the emanations of a spirit early enraptured with the glowing beauties that thickly gem the pages of our illustrious bards—that are stamped upon the enchanting and harmonious tableau of nature, and that pervade the sacred volume of inspiration, in all the rich luxuriance of poetic brilliancy—I shall make no apology for the obtrusion —ask no favourable inspection—crave no leniency of decision nor compromise of judgment; but frankly submit to the unbiassed opinion of my readers, the various compositions of the succeeding volume, which have been progressively written during the hours of leisure, from very early youth, and which, by absorbing the feelings and exercising the thoughts, have often alleviated sorrow, subdued care, augmented happiness, and in fine, constituted the climax of enjoyment. Should any portion of the pleasure their production has inspired, be infused into the minds of those who read them, it will be an ample recompense for the trouble of preparing them for the press. Whatever be their reception, there must be some affinity betwixt their aim and their end; the former being always either the illustration of truth, or the excitement of religious, benevolent, or contemplative feeling; the latter can never be dissonant to the first principle that generated their existence: therefore, on this score, I can feel no repugnance to their publication, or any fear for the severity of criticism, or the anathema of the most scrupulous moralist, or of the unrelentingly censorious.

There is one disadvantage under which I shall labour, in submitting the contents of this volume to the public; namely, that others, justly celebrated, have written upon some of the subjects which I have chosen, but of this I was not aware until my own poems were completed; therefore, should they be found in any respect to resemble the productions of others, it will only be another proof of what has often been asserted, that similar ideas strike different minds when treating on the same subject; and the fact of not having read the writings of those, who have been led by the Muse into the same path, ought to rescue me from the imputation of plagiarism:—it cannot be the selection of a subject, but the manner in which it is treated, that must determine the originality and merit of a composition.

Should I be decried for not having confined myself to such measured versifications as are laid down in the rules of poetical composition, I must add, I have examples from the mighty ones who have preceded me (to the minutest particle of whose greatness I can scarcely ever hope to attain), for much more striking deviations from rule than I have ventured to introduce; and further, that I have long cherished the opinion of the immortal Dryden, that poets' laws are but cobweb walls, for them to break through at pleasure; under which feeling, I have always presumed to write; and laying no claim to either perfection or exalted merit in these poems, they should only be assailed by that candour in criticism, which ungarnished simplicity deserves, and which would as gladly reveal their beauties, if there be any, as pour a torrent of castigation on them or their Author.

Should they be honoured by the approbation of a discriminating public, that will be justly appreciated. Should they attract the attention, and elicit the approval of the glorious phalanx of exalted minds, that constitute the literati of my day, and are the honour and boast of my country—the admiration of the world—who are the receptacles of knowledge, the engines of research, the seeds of information; whence spring the bud, the blossom, and the ripened fruit of intelligence and wisdom; who reveal the laws of nature, or explore the treasures of truth; or those who, surrounded by the halo of inspiration, shed its rays diffusively over the minds of all who follow them in the exuberance of their fancy, or gather from their immortal pages the important truths with which they are adorned; —should they gain the approbation of these, of which I will not despair, as liberality and candour are ever the characteristics of genius, I shall more than ever exult in the privilege of being born in a country so long celebrated for the pre‐eminence she has attained in letters, philosophy, and valour; in truth, religion, and virtue; whose sons have ever burned with patriotic ardour, and whose daughters have been, and are, acknowledged the fair and "the excellent of the earth:" where not the shadow, but the spirit of liberty has prevailed, and shone in brightest splendour, rendering her a beacon for the emulation of surrounding nations, and enabling her to stand firm—unshaken—amid the storms beneath which greater states have tottered to their base.

CONTENTS.Stanzas on Music1Destruction of Jerusalem5Stanzas on Friendship8The Deluge10Stanzas on Eventide18Lazarus raised from the dead21The General Resurrection24On the death of my Sister38Amy Robsart41Job51A Fragment53Mon Ame est un Rayon56Translation of ditto58To Byron62Eden, the fall and its fatal consequences66Mary, Queen of Scots74Dicté en presence du Glacier du Rhone86Translation of ditto90Evening94Lines on the death of my Brother98The Forsaken, a Tale100Sonetto di Francesco Petrarca116Translation of ditto117Sonetto di Francesco Petrarca118Translation of ditto119Sonetto di Francesca Petrarca120Translation of ditto121Sonetto di Torquato Tasso122Translation of ditto123On the death of my Mother125Divine Providence128Aspirations to the Deity130Pride132"I've wandered where Gigantic Rocks"133Stanzas135SUBSCRIBERS' NAMES.Allcock Mrs. SnentonAshwell Mr. J. H. NottinghamAssolari Sig. ditto, Professor of LanguagesAttenborough Mr. R. Nottingham Park, 2 copiesBarnsdall Mr. NottinghamBean Mr. S. dittoBeardmore Mr. G. A. dittoBolling J. Esq. BrightonBoote Miss, NottinghamBradshaw Mr. J. SolicitorBradshaw Mr. Wm. Fox HillBrooks Mr. A. NottinghamBrowne Mrs. BrightonButt Mr. ScarringtonButtery Mr. John, Solicitor, NottinghamC. Mr. BrightonCallow Mr. T. O. NottinghamCarey Mr. Alderman, Nottingham, 3 copiesCarey Mr. H. dittoCarey Mrs. H. dittoCarey Mr. T. B. ditto, 2 copiesCarey Mr. F. Nottingham, 2 copiesCarlin Mr. M. dittoCarter Mr. Wm. Standard Hill, Nottingham, 4 copiesCarter Mr. J. dittoCartledge Mr. Wm. NottinghamCartledge Mr. S. ditto, 4 copiesCarver Mr. E. dittoCarver Mr. G. dittoCheetham S. Esq. HambletonCheetham Mr. W. NottinghamChouler Mr. T. dittoChapelhow Mr. G. C. dittoClarke Mr. R. LincolnClarke Mr. T. NottinghamClarke Mrs. LiverpoolColdwell W. Esq. BrightonCorden Mr. R. NottinghamCutts Mrs. ditto, 3 copiesDrewry Mr. B. ditto, 4 copiesF. Mr. BrightonFarmer Mr. J. NottinghamFarmer Mr. R. dittoFearnhead Mrs. Ashby‐de‐la‐ZouchFinn Mr. T. Nottingham, 4 copiesFisher T. Esq. NottinghamFletcher Mr. John, GranthamFoster Miss, MansfieldFreeth George, Esq. LondonFurniss Mrs. MansfieldGarland Mr. G. NottinghamGelsthorpe Mr. dittoGimson Mr. NottinghamGloyn Mr. KensingtonGough Mr. John, NottinghamGroom Mr. dittoGuilford Mr. ditto, 2 copiesHadden Alex. Esq. BramcoteHamilton Miss, EdinburghHannay William, Esq. Radford, 2 copiesHarrison Mr. C. NottinghamHeard John, Esq. (Mayor), dittoHerbert Mr. Wm. Nottingham Park, 6 copiesHollins Mr. S. NottinghamHicklin Mr. John, dittoHicks Mr. Thomas, Kinoulton GrangeHiggins W. M. Esq. LondonHoe Rev. Thomas, Long Clawson VicarageHoe Mr. Markham, dittoHopkinson Mr. Geo. junr. Solicitor, NottinghamHutchinson R.␣␣M. D.␣␣F. R. S. dittoHutchinson Mrs. NottinghamHurst N. Esq. Nottingham ParkHurst Mr. Samuel, WoodthorpeHurst Mr. John, NottinghamHuyser Mr. dittoInnis Mrs. Kensington Square, MiddlesexJames Mr. R. junr. NottinghamJenks Mr. J. dittoJohnson Mrs. ditto, 4 copiesKendall Mr. R. O. dittoKendall Mrs. ditto, 2 copiesKeeley Mr. T. ditto, 4 copiesKirk Mr. T. Bookseller, dittoLawton Mr. E. dittoLeaver Mr. F. ditto, 2 copiesLightfoot William, M, D. dittoLightfoot Mrs. William, dittoLewy Mr. dittoLowe Alfred, Esq. High FieldsLowe Mrs. Alfred, dittoLowe A. H. Esq. BramcoteLowe Mrs. A. H. dittoManly Mr. T. NottinghamManly Mrs. T. dittoMelville Mr. C. dittoMetcalf Mr. J. LondonMoore T. Esq. RuddingtonMorley Mr. John, Castle Gate, Nottingham, 4 copiesNicholson Mr. LincolnNoyes Mr. Nottingham, 3 copiesNunn Mr. John, Nottingham ParkOliver Rev. G.␣␣D. D. Scopwick VicarageOliver Mr. B. S. NottinghamOrah Mr. HuddersfieldOwencroft Mr. NottinghamParsons Mr. John, ditto, 2 copiesPaynter Mrs. Cambridge Terrace, PaddingtonPearson Joseph, Esq. Nottingham, 3 copiesPearson Mr. ChilwellPerry Mr. J. NottinghamPryse Mr. BrightonRawson G. Esq. NottinghamReckless Mr. dittoRenshaw Mr. G. dittoRenshaw Mr. R. dittoRigley J. J. W. Esq. ditto, 4 copiesRoberts Mr. LondonRoberts Mr. T. and Sons, Nottingham, 4 copiesRobinson Mr. C. junr. LondonSandars J. Esq. BasfordSandars H. Esq. dittoSansom Mr. NottinghamSaville Mr. dittoSeals Mr. junr. dittoSevern Mrs. dittoSherlock Mrs. SouthwellShipley Mr. Nottingham, 4 copiesSkipwith Mrs. dittoSkipwith Mr. J. dittoSlater Mr. S. B. dittoSmith Mr. T. H. dittoSmith T. Esq. CarabineersSmith Mr. T. G. NottinghamSmith W. Esq. Montague Square, LondonSollory Miss, NottinghamSpencer Mr. C. dittoSpencer Mr. John, dittoSurplice W. Esq. Woodville, 4 copiesSwann C. Esq. NottinghamTaylor Mr. D. dittoThorpe Mrs. W. dittoT. Mr. BrightonTomlinson Mrs. LondonTowell Mr. P. NottinghamUpton Mr. dittoWalker Mr. J. dittoWatson Mr. Derby, 3 copiesWatts Mr. W. NottinghamWaynman Mrs. dittoWesson Mrs. dittoWesson Mr. T. dittoWhite Mr. dittoWhittaker J. Esq. Arnot HillWhyatt Mr. NottinghamWild Miss, dittoWild Miss J. C. NottinghamWilde Mrs. Short Hill, dittoWilkins Venerable Archdeacon, D. D. dittoWilkins Mrs. dittoWinter Mr. T. Nottingham ParkWood Mr. T. Nottingham, 2 copiesWoodhouse Mr. T. NottinghamWright Mr. J. ditto, 4 copiesWright S. Esq. Edinburgh, 2 copiesWright Mr. C. N. Nottingham, 4 copies.STANZAS ON MUSIC.I.There's not a passion that the bosom feelsOf mighty, gentle, or exalted kind,But captive may be led by music's charms—Subdued, augmented, soften'd, or refined.II.Music excites, by its enchanting pow'r,The loftiest thoughts that can inspire the heart;Joys that are holy, delicate, and pure,That of existence form the brightest part.III.The patriot's heart by music may be nervedTo firmness, for his well lov'd "country's weal;"To bravely fight for all her cherish'd rights,And with his blood, her pride and glory seal.IV.The soldier, when in battle's gory field,Surrounded by the deaf'ning din of war,Feels in his breast heroic ardour burn,While martial strains are pealing from afar.V.There's not a sound the elements produce,From gale's soft whisper, to the tempest's roar,But music most correctly can express,And all its grandeur on our spirits pour.VI.The murmur of the ocean in a calm—In storm its majesty and furious swell—The streamlet's ripple—and the cascade's fall—Music's descriptive pow'rs distinctly tell.VII.By it Jehovah's judgments are describedWith such resistless force, such thrilling pow'r,We feel to tremble at the wrath of Heav'n,And fancy 'tis destruction's awful hour.VIII.As with a tongue, it can proclaim the groans,The shrieks, the agony, the pains of thoseWho meet a hero's death upon the field,Or fall less glorious 'neath as bitter woes.IX.The sounds of victory its strains can swell,And from the vanquish'd echo back despair;Can renovate the fainting breast with hope,And down the sternest cheek can draw the tear.X.There's not a joy in life but it augments,No sorrow but it lessens or subdues,No feeling but it renders more intense,No pleasure that is past but it renews.XI.It wakes our sympathy, and melts our hearts,Infuses tenderness, and love, and peace;Bids sensibility adorn our breasts,And all tumultuous, angry passions cease.XII.When in the social circle we beholdThe smiling faces of our well lov'd friends,We feel affection's glow, and higher joy,As on our ears sweet harmony descends.XIII.When meekly in the house of God we bow,To offer adoration to His name,Its sounds inspiring animate the soul,And fan devotion's embers to a flame.XIV.And Heav'n itself with harmony is fill'd—With angels' joyful and melodious lays:There ransom'd saints in ceaseless anthems harp,To God and Christ, their everlasting praise.THE DESTRUCTION OF JERUSALEM.My spirit wafts me to those gorgeous tow'rs,That city once of glory, strength, and pride,Where Jesus gazed, and wept, and spoke— "the pow'rsOf Heav'n in dust thy greatness soon shall hide!"Oh! dread prophetic words! The lips of truthDenounc'd thy total ruin and decay,Thy big rebellion call'd the vengeance forth,Which hurl'd all vestige of thy pomp away.'T was such distress as earth till then ne'er saw;Which Heav'n itself could not unveil'd behold:The sun is dark—the moon and stars withdrawTheir light from horrors that can ne'er be toldThe brazen front of sanguine war is bared,The blood of thousands in their streets to shed;Nor young, nor old, nor high, nor low are spared,But mingling groans, and shrieks, around are spread.Amid the frightful slaughter that goes forth,Grim famine adds her bitter, blackest pangs,Till mothers, lovely in the pride of youth, *Turn monsters—tear their babes with eager fangs;And feed upon the infants which they bareWith savage joy—nor long with this can quellThe rage of hunger, that with brutal glareShone in their eyes, and madden'd till they fell,Exhausted, frantic, agonized in death,Surrounded by the dying and the dead—The rage of those who press'd with their last breathThe carnage on—till all was ruin dread!Choked are the avenues with heaps of those,Who in the direful bloody conflict fell:They who survived till now, have bitterer woesThan those—too horrible for tongue to tell.Without the walls, in unrelenting ire,The foe still hurls the thunderbolts of death;A rapid, murd'rous, and unceasing fire,Till in the fated city none have breath.Ev'ry sound is now hush'd, save the trumpets of war,That with triumph proclaim that the conquest is won;And the hoarse shouts of those who satisfied areWith the slaughter which they have unsparingly done.

* That mothers destroyed their infants and fed upon them, during the famine of Jerusalem, is a supposition founded upon the fact stated by Josephus, of one mother having committed the frightful act—a woman of high rank among the Jews, who fled from beyond Jordan with her treasures into Jerusalem, and was there besieged. Her rapacious and seditious countrymen robbed her of all she possessed, and when she had nothing left, accused her of secreting food, and greatly tormented her every day. Wearied at last with her own intense sufferings from famine, and the abuse she daily received, she took her infant son from her breast, slew him, cooked one half of the body, and fed upon it, then set the remainder before her insulting intruders the next time they visited her, saying, "this is truly my son, and my doing, eat you of it, for I myself have eaten thereof. Be not more effeminate than a woman, nor more merciful than a mother." At which, they trembled and left her, spreading the report of her crime through the city.

The position I have assumed in my brief Poem, conveys a very inadequate idea of the horrors that existed through famine.

See Josephus, Sixth Book, chap. xiv.STANZAS." 'Tis said, that friendship's but a name."I.'Tis said, "that friendship's but a name;"To this my heart can ne'er agree,Because I feel its genial flameTo shed an influence over me;II.In a mild and radiant light,So full of hope, of peace, and joy,That I should sicken with affright,At ought that could its pow'r destroy.III.For all the gems in earth and sea,For brightest beauty, wealth, or fame,I would not let those pleasures flee,That hallow friendship's sacred name.IV.No! rather let my bosom bleedWith deepest anguish and distress;Whene'er I see my friends have need,That I should make their sorrows less.V.Fain would I share the depths of woe,And watch the bed of pain and death,Could I but one—one gleam bestowOf peace, to sooth the parting breath.VI.I'd rather feel my heart dilateWith pity, and affection's glow,Than drink with selfish joy elate,Of pleasure's brightest streams that flow.THE DELUGE.I.I wonder not the Triune God should feelRegret that He had form'd rebellious man,When I survey the swelling flood of vice,That with destructive force thro' ages ran;Pouring pollution in its mighty course,Uncheck'd o'er all Creation's surface wide;Till pride, licentiousness, and crime were there,An ever flowing—never ebbing tide.Were not His love as boundless as the spaceIn which the glorious stars and planets shine;Held by attraction's wondrous laws, that speakAloud the Wisdom, Pow'r, and Might divine,He would have back to Chaos hurl'd this globe,That is but as an atom in His hand,Had not Compassion bade His Justice wait,Ere vengeance desolates the guilty land.One only 'midst this universal vice,Hath liv'd untainted by its baneful pow'r;Hath seen and labour'd to avert the doom—The dismal ruin of the coming hour.Methinks I see this chosen saint of GodGo forth, the lost and wicked to reclaim;And hear his lips denounce with throbbing heart,Despite all threats, their overthrow and shame.II.He is a warrior in the field of strife,Arm'd in the panoply of Faith he stands!Forewarning them of danger, and declares,That vengeance soon shall break the strongest bandsThat link them to their pleasures and their sins!That dire destruction soon shall overtakeThem, 'mid the fullness of licentious joy!That earth with dread and ruin soon shall shake!Unless they will repent, and turn asideFrom their obnoxious and detested crime.He warns, he threatens, he intreats, and prays,With tender earnestness, from time to time;But ev'ry word that issues from his lipsExcites in them, but anger, pride, and scorn.Wearied at length with their contempt and vice,He now proclaims how soon they'll be forlorn—Wretched and desolate, without one rayOf hope, to cheer them in that fearful hour,Without one gleam of comfort in distress,Or any refuge from destruction's power.That Heav'n in fatal torrents soon shall hurlIts long protracted ire! and that not oneShall hide in the remotest caves his head;When God His wrath sends forth it rushes on!"Oh! 'twill not come by slow degrees, that some"May have their anguish soothed by others' tears!"No! 'twill be one tremendous awful shock,"Till desolation ev'rywhere appears!"Not mightiest monarch, nor the meanest slave,"Amidst the ruin can secure a tomb;"In heaps of young and old the dead shall lie,"Nor pray'rs, nor tears, can then avert the doom." 'Twill be a fearful and terrific day—" 'The fountains of the deep be broken up!'—"From the black clouds electric fire will fall,"And fill'd with bitter dregs will be your cup!"Your babes, that helpless on the bosom hang,"Shall but augment the pyramid of woe;"Horror and fright shall seize your souls, and all"That breathe, the mighty Deluge shall o'erflow!"III.Ev'ry prophetic word is quick fulfill'd,For fearful desolation spreads around!And he who strove the vice of man to quell,Alone to brave the tempest's pow'r is found!IV.Tho' now upon a reckless race is hurl'dDestruction! still within the promis'd arkIs placed secure the saint—his children too,And proudly on the waves now rides the bark.O! 'tis a glorious thought! and fullOf comfort to the sorrowing breast,That 'mid the unsparing deluge of mankind,God on the billows gives his faithful rest!Behold each creature that His hand had form'd,From the proud Lion to the placid Dove,Obey instinctively their Maker's will,And seek from man protection! while aboveHe lifts his tranquil eye and grateful heart,In adoration joyful, meek, and pure,That from remembrance of his peril flows,And must thro' life unceasingly endure.But let the eye now wander back, and turnUpon the helpless, agonized, dismay'd!O! who can gaze upon the direful scene,When all that can affright the soul's display'd!V.There's a mother o'er her children weeping!Yet thanking Heav'n that her babes are sleeping;And there's a mother with dread and anguish torn,Sees her struggling babes on billows borne!And some whose unborn infants from the womb,With fright now start—they breathe—then meet the tomb!—The mighty and tumultuous waves now spread,T' inclose at once the living and the dead!They know not the woe that gathers around,'Tis their parents that shudder while thunders resound.See the flash of the lightning—the high swelling flood—That stiffens the features and curdles the blood!And there are young and tender lovers dying,Clasp'd in each others' arms, for mercy crying!There's the young, the beauteous, and blooming bride,Her husband with dread, aghast by her side!And she with distress unspeakably wild,Clings to his breast like a terrified child!Motionless, speechless, completely o'ercome,They stupified wait their horrible doom.The past is remorse—the present despair—The future all doubt and bitterness drear.And there are guilty ones with madness yelling,And as death draws nigh still their fury swelling!And some with sin, less harden'd than the rest,That kneel, and pray, and hope they may be blest.And there are some with melancholy gloom,As fix'd, and dark, as their approaching doom!And there is age, decrepit and forlorn,By deep remorse, by fear, and anguish torn!And sighs, and groans, and shrieks of dark despair,Now echo thro' the rocks, and rend the air!VI.Oh! the blackness of tempest now covers the sky!Earth shakes to her centre! and the big waves roll highTheir furious voice, and mix with the thunder's loud roar,The hoarse sounds of their wrath, which in torrents they pour.And the birds that ascend to the uppermost air,Flap unceasing their wings, as if caught by despair:To the tops of the mountains the animals roam,But they're presently dash'd to the billowy foam.And the steeds that so lately had pranc'd in their might,Tho' of death still unconscious, foam wild with affright:And the beasts most ferocious, that roam for their prey,Leave the dead that the waters cast up to decay;Tho' their blood is scarce cold, and life hath scarce fled,Yet hunger is glutted with sight of the dead.VII.The demons of hell with savage delight,Of sin see the fruits—exult at the sight—And rush round their Chief with howlings of joy,That to them is reserv'd the love to destroy,And power to gain such a harvest as this!Like monsters they groan—like serpents they hiss—Their mirth t' express, that for torture and woe,Victims so num'rous are hurried below!And Satan in pride shakes his pond'rous throne,And the ravines of hell, with the sonorous tone,That thunders his praise of their wondrous pow'r,Exerted so well, t' accomplish this hour!He bids each to his work, a glorious boon!Then with huge laughter, majestic, alone,Exults in the horrors that form his delight.The victims arrive! O! rapturous sight!He bellows thro' all his dreary domains,As he lists the terrible shrieks of their pains;Fresh honours to those, who most skill have shown,In raising by torture the bitterest moan!Never since hurl'd by Jehovah from Heav'n,To their unsated desires, were such lux'ries giv'n!STANZAS."I love to gaze at even‐tide."I.I love to gaze at even‐tideUpon the still and mighty deep,And see the sun's reflecting raysOver its tranquil surface creep.II.I love to list the billows' roar,And watch the waves' majestic swell,For there Jehovah's glory shines,In grandeur seraphs could not tell!III.I love to dwell upon the joyUnspeakable, that fill'd my breast,When o'er the water's wide expanseI pass'd, when ruffled—when at rest.IV.O let me oft such rapture know!And let my grateful spirit raise,'Mid raging storms its humble pray'r,'Neath sunny skies its ardent praise!V.O! I could gaze from morn till night,On scenes which I have often view'd;Nor feel the touch of wearinessUpon my ravish'd sense obtrude!VI.The source it is, whence I'd renewMy mind's too oft enfeebled pow'rs,And gather treasures that would throwSome solace round my weary hours.VII.Fain would I see those long famed shores,Where, in the blaze of genius dwelt—Heroes, and Orators, and Bards—And Sages who at truth's shrine knelt.VIII.Yes! I would tread where Poets trod,And catch the animating fire,That lifts the heart and soul on high,And tunes to softest strains the Lyre.IX.I'd feel the Poet's kindling glow,And own the Sculptor's magic pow'r;Steal joy from beauty and from art,To gladden ev'ry flying hour.X.I'd read on Nature's brilliant page,What God himself hath written there,And be identified with Him,Whose spirit fills this circling sphere.LAZARUS RAISED FROM THE DEAD.I.Behold the mighty Lord of heav'n and earth,Moved with compassion at the dead man's grave!The love, the majesty, the pow'r of Him,Who still'd the tempest—walk'd upon the wave!II.The Maker o'er the creature weeps! but why?Not for the young man's death, for well He knew,That quick as lightning would His powerful wordThro' the cold clay vitality renew!III.Ah, no! 'twas sympathy that caused His tears;They flow'd with sorrow for the bitter woes,That man by his rebellion must endure:His grief for sin was more than woman's throes.IV.O heav'n! O earth! ye stars that shine above,Behold amazed your Maker! with the dreadAnd mighty voice, that bade the spheres to be!He wakes to life the half putrescent dead!V."Laz'rus come forth!" Lo! at the word he comes,Who four days past had rotted in the tomb;And tho' with grave clothes bound, he straightway standsIn all the vigour of life's freshest bloom!VI.The stagnant blood in liquid currents flows—In beauties new he sees the world arise,To his astonish'd and ecstatic soul:Then prostrate at his Saviour's feet he lies!VII.He lives a monument of Jesus' pow'r,Stupendous, wonderful, benign! and heMust own its influence to his latest hour,And let mankind his grateful homage see.VIII.His Sisters round him now with rapture cling,Anxious their heartfelt tenderness to prove;He clasps them in his arms, and bathes with tears,And blesses with a brother's fondest love.IX.Could language tell the ardent, thrilling joy,That animated ev'ry bosom there?Pure as the azure of the spreading sky,And deep, and full, and holy, bright, and clear.THE GENERAL RESURRECTION.I.How lovely doth the universe appear!And how refulgent shine those glorious orbsThat round the sun their evolutions make!As well as yon innumerable host,That fill the wider range of boundless space!This fruitful earth, with beauties bright adorn'd,Still in unfading freshness smiles and blooms,And rich abundance to her offspring yields.Successive seasons bring to man suppliesFor ev'ry want his nature hath—and mark!Busied in varied scenes of life, he fearsNo dissolution of this pond'rous globe,But carelessly beholds its charms—its fruits—And from their fulness sates his own desires.He recks not, that the hour is nigh, whereinShall be fulfill'd those words prophetic whichThe Saviour spoke! when even heav'n itselfShall pass away, and as a vest be chang'd!That earth amid her own luxuriance tooShall be consumed—yea, utterly consumed!That sun, and moon, and stars, shall fade or fall:Yes! such destruction shall there be—that noneWho see that day shall gaze unchill'd—unchain'dWith fear and awe upon the utter ruinThat will encompass the abodes of men.Those bright immeasurably distant spheres,That perhaps to other systems are as suns,May view this world from its existence hurl'd,And still in harmony unceasing shine.II.How will amazement seize each soul!—and fear,And horror, ev'ry guilty bosom tear!—When they behold the Heavens all opening wide—The great Archangel with a shout descend—*The God who bare our sins as Judge of all!Attended with a gorgeous throng of saints,†Who now of his magnificent approachThe grandeur swell, and fill the air with soundsOf triumph, that the time is come, when HeWith them shall judge in righteousness the world!Who by His death atonement made for man—Who our infirmities endured—on whomThe wrath of God in an o'erwhelming streamWas pour'd, until it deluged His afflictedSpirit, which He without a murmur bore!The same who left th' empyreal realms of Heav'n,And suffered sickness, pain, and want, and woe,Too bitter to be told! Who had no home,In which to rest His weary head! No friendTo succour in His hour of deepest grief!No hand to wipe the bloody sweat that sateUpon His agonized and tortured brow!No cup of water to relieve His thirst—Cool His parch'd lips—and cheer his fainting heart!No! He was desolate! "He had laidHis Godhead by," and must endure aloneThe heavy load of bitter agony!III."Behold! He comes!" His promises to sealWith those who've trusted to His mighty love!To punish unrepented sin—to castThe wicked to their final doom—to bid"The heav'ns from His presence flee!" and makeThe unbelieving "gaze on Him whom theyHave pierced" (inflicting keen and deadly wounds),And of their heinous guilt the horror feel—The deeper dread of that eternal woeIn which they'll be ingulph'd! without one ray,One cheering ray, to dart across their soulsAh! they may "call upon the rocks to hide" themFrom His sight—'tis vain! His eye still follows!No refuge for a moment can they findFrom His insulted justice and His wrath!"He comes!" to bid the dead arise, and standUpon His right and on His left! "The seaTo yield what it contains"—and ev'ry atomOf man's scatter'd elements to re‐unite,And start again to animated life:And all receive from Him the just rewardOf their remorseless, unrepented sins!The fiends whose bold rebellion caus'd, amidThe Host of heav'n, a conflict dire, stupendous,Who have ranged among th' inhabitants of earth,Disseminating misery, death, and sin,Must now receive their just terrific doom:Nor more immortal spirits captive lead,To plunge into hell's dark abyss, that theyMight revel in their victim's fearful pangs!IV.The mid‐day sun dazzling and resplendent—The moon, that crowns with silv'ry brilliancyThe night: the glitt'ring stars, more splendid farThan gems in richest diadem: the dawn,The welcome harbinger of beauties rich,Varied, glowing, and effulgent: evening'sSoften'd radiance, that inspires the mindWith ev'ry pure and holy contemplation;The night, in sombre majesty array'd—The billows of the deep by tempest swoln—Its tranquil surface in unruffled calm—The rainbow's arch of blended hues, that graspsThe sky, are each magnificent, and fullOf beauties exquisite, unutterable,And infinite! but could they in one brightAnd pow'rful focus concentrate their charms,And all its blazing influence on ourEnraptur'd and astonish'd spirits pour,'T would be no mirror to reflect the grandeur,Or to the mind a just conception give,Of the majesty august—the gloryJehovah will display, when He with hostsInnumerable shall appear, the endOf time to consummate, and finallyTo launch both quick and dead, with their deserts,Upon eternity's unbounded sea!V.Hark! 'tis the earth's intestine groans I hear,That she with agony convuls'd now heaves,Shrinking as 'twere beneath the thrilling senseOf speedy dissolution, from the face of HimWho call'd her forth, and will destroy!With deaf'ning noise the pealing thunders roll,And earth's foundations shake—the lightning'sRapid flash illumes the air, and makes the skyOne vast expanse of vivid flame—Tho' pale its brightness to the dazzling blazeOf glory that adorns the Saviour's brow!That marks His path, and spreads thro' all His train.VI."The saints alive upon the earth" now riseWith joy, "to meet Him in the air"—to hailTheir Lord—to mingle in the brilliant throng—To share His smile, and from His lips receiveThe just fulfilment of their ardent hopes.Perhaps there are some, who chilling fear have felt,As they've beheld the elements in motion,Then prostrate, of devout and humble pray'rThe burning incense to their Maker giv'n,And found their faith, the pinions of their soulsFresh plumed, triumphantly to bear them thro'The agitated sea of air, and the loud crashOf storm, and the crowds of trembling beings,Together cluster'd in appalling fright,Shrivell'd to half their size with conscious guilt,And dire forebodings of their future woe:Sublimely soar the saints, until they meetThe armies of our God, and then exultinglyThe swelling strains of heav'nly music join.VII.They reach this globe—this atom 'mid the spaceThat's boundless, fathomless immensity!"The last trump sounds!" and in a moment wakeThe mouldering dead, whose sleep unbrokenHath for many thousand years endured.But now the grave no longer can their dustContain! And first the dead in Christ arise*With bodies glorious and spiritual,†That never fade, but must their vigour, youth,And bloom throughout eternity retain.In mingled multitudes around their JudgeThey crowd, a splendid, mighty phalanx,Of patriarchs, prophets, saints, and martyrs—All who have fought the battles of "the Lamb,"And of His cross, the bright insignia wore.VIII.The next shrill blast calls forth the wicked, whoFrom their dark tombs start in trembling millions!They too are with immortal bodies clothed,And, "in the twinking of an eye!" Oh! whatWould they now give, could they be henceforthAnnihilated?—and ne'er behold againTheir incens'd Maker's frown, that hangs a cloudTerrific on his threat'ning brow! What black,What thick'ning horrors do their souls perceiveIn His accumulated wrath! that soonOn such rebellious creatures must be hurl'd.IX.No honours now, that time bestow'd, existAmong th' affrighted throng—they feel too lateThey were for immortality designed.Monarchs and slaves without distinction stand—All classes and all crimes await their doom—The poor who stole—the rich who would not give,And by their vast abundance but increas'd their sins—The boasting coward, who much valour thenProfess'd, but even from the exerciseOf common courage shrunk, tho' 'twere the wrongsOf innocence t' avenge. The knave, who stroveAlike the virtuous and the wickedTo deceive, and with their rights himself invest.The young, the old, who false, and vile, have inTheir path dissensions strewn, and poison'd lifeWith calumny's insidious blighting curse,And the bright temple of domestic joyTo atoms shiver'd, and fair fame so muchDistorted, that it became a filthyThing for fools to scoff at. The hypocrite,Who now of his dissembling robe is stripp'd,Amid the gaze of an astonish'd world,Disclosing such a hideous list of crime,As if 'twere possible would blacken demons'Guilt. The harden'd villain, who ne'er could feel,For any deed, the scarlet hue of shameRush thro' his veins, and tinge his flinty face.The ruthless wretch, whose hands are crimson'd withA brother's gore; the drunkard too, whose midnightRevels and debauch'd carouse, have made hisThroat the sepulchre of domestic peace,That with unsated ravings hath devour'dWhat should have render'd happy, those whom Heav'nHad placed beneath his care: and he whose tongueWith subtle falsehood hath his friend betray'd.The grim and ruthless tyrant, who hath sway'dOppressive pow'r with an unflinching hand,And then, in others' misery exulted.These, with tenfold others, most fearfullyAppall'd, before their angry Judge appear;Who, by one Omnipotent and piercing glance,Severs the wicked from the just, and dartsThro' all a right perception, for each oneTo instantly assume his proper place.X.Now of the vilest minds are quick reveal'dThe deepest, deadliest stratagems; and ev'ry thoughtThat with iniquity's imbued, is bared.Each victim can as on a tablet read,In characters emblazon'd, the foul deeds,Which he hath wrought—the thoughts he hath conceiv'd,Nor needs he memory's aid—the faithfulRegister of Heav'n, with this faculty(In man so estimable) dispenses.He who reckless hurl'd the unrepentedTo untimely death and ceaseless torment,Now finds his frantic misery increasedBy bitter groans, and still more bitter shrieks,By black invectives, and the revengeful curseOf the despairing, and distracted wretch,Whom of Heav'n's pardon he at once deprived,And existence here, by the fell blow whichHe in monstrous cruelty inflicted.And there's the ambitious conquerer, whose aimWas rapine, wealth, and pow'r, whose thirst of bloodScarce with a life of slaughter could be sated;Who bereaved so many wives of husbands—So many mothers of their sons—childrenOf their fathers—and ev'ry sacred, dearConnection sever'd—o'erwhelming thousandsIn seas of woe, as vast as those with bloodIncarnadine, that cover'd spacious plains—That at his word laid kingdoms desolate!No sigh for orphans or for widows heav'dBy his unpitying and relentless breast!No tear shone in his eye of pride and scorn,Nor e'er bedew'd his rough and hardy cheek!But one black series of remorseless strifeMark'd his too dark, destructive, vile career!Unlike the valiant warrior, who fightsThe rights of innocence to guard, and saveHis country from invasion's flagrant wrongs,And sets his life at nought in honour's cause.The licentious too, whose numerous crimesAll unveil'd, make him stand with fright aghast,And wring his sinful soul with laceratingPangs! while he surveys with horror, as arraign'dBefore him, in confusion and dismay,The many wrecks of happiness which heHath made; who now like frighted spectres stareUpon him, waiting the dread sentence, thatMust ere long their fearful doom determine.XI.The countless crimes disclosed—the sentencesDecreed, might a ponderous volume fill,And 't would be vain! already the heart sickens—The features pale, 'neath the contemplationOf this sure and fast approaching day!Let those behold who can, the awful scene,And list the Judge's stern decree, that castsInto the black abyss of horror—woe—Despair—pangs unspeakable—risingFrom the ceaseless gnawings of that restless,Never dying, though devouring worm,A guilty conscience; and to each awardingThe full punishment their crimes have earn'd!XII.Heaven's gates now open wide, to welcomeThe enraptur'd myriads to those realmsOf glory, bliss, and praise, where God himselfIn uncreated splendour reigns, and whosePresence fills this blest abode with joy,With happiness ineffable, unending!Yes! there the ascending souls with rapture mount,Who in their flight perhaps may cast one lookBack upon the raging element, that nowEnvelopes, and soon will terminate, of thisFair, fertile globe, the full destruction!Quickly the mansions of the just resoundWith "Hallelujahs to the Lamb," whose blood hathWash'd them from their sins, and in the KingdomOf His Father giv'n them immortal joy,And clearly to their blissful minds display'dThe exhaustless springs of knowledge—wisdom—truth—That they in full fruition may partake!* 1 Thess, iv. 16.†St. Jude, verse 14.* 1 Thess. iv. 16.†1 Corin. xv. 44.ON THE DEATH OF MY SISTER.I.Mine eye hath been bedew'd with tears,My heart hath swell'd with silent grief,My soul hath felt that bitter woe,That hopes from God alone relief:II.For I was bless'd with those bright joys,Which only from affection flow;A Sister shed their light on me,And bade my breast reflect its glow.III.She lov'd me with an artless love,So constant, fervent, and so pure,That freely I'd have died for her,And could in death have loved her more.IV.But Heav'n ordain'd that I should viewHealth's roses fade upon her cheek;And watch the latent germ of deathShoot forth, and all our woe bespeak.V.I daily saw her wasting form—Her pallid lip and sinking eye,Foretel how shortly we must part,And yet, I hop'd she would not die.VI.How bitter were the pangs that thrill'dMy ever anxious throbbing heart,No one can know—no words can speak—And few things else could such impart!VII.But 'mid the anguish of my mind,When conscious her I must resign,There was a hope, a cheering hope,A peace, a joy, a faith divine;VIII.Which Heav'n diffused in sacred beams,Around her sick and dying bed;Which dried the tears that long had flow'd,And heal'd the hearts that long had bled.IX.And aided thus, we humbly look'dBeyond the fading joys of time,To those bestow'd upon the justAbove—eternal and sublime.AMY ROBSART.I.When Amy dwelt beneath her father's care,Ere yet ambitious love beguil'd,Array'd in beauty, innocence, and truth,The ever‐loving, well lov'd child.II.She then was happy, and her heart unchill'dBy disappointment; she was gay,And bright, and lovely as the opening dawn,That ushers in with rosy tints the day.III.Her father lov'd her with such tenderness,So closely twined her round his heart,That she was all his joy; and her bright smilesBade sorrow from his breast depart.IV.She too was lov'd by one, whose truth and worthDeserv'd her fondness—one who soughtDaily with thirst of knowledge to inspireHer soul, until with wisdom fraught.V.O! had she listen'd with a kindly earTo his instructions and his pray'rs,Her father's broken heart she would have spar'd!Her ruin'd peace—remorse, and tears!VI.But lo! there's one with dazzling pomp and state,Whose grace and elegance of mien,Whose courtly favour, and whose brilliant fame,Had through the nation wafted been;VII.Before her bends his knee, and offers vowsOf love, of constancy, and truth,Of wealth and high magnificence—A coronet t' adorn her brow of youth!VIII.She leaves her father's house—becomes a bride—Is hurried to a lone retreat!Eager she drinks her new fill'd cup of joy,Nor dreams her hopes can meet defeat.IX.She loves her husband, and his love she hath,But then, ambition rules his heart,Which hushes in his breast affection's claim—Bids him, despite her tears, depart.X.He quits her for the allurements of a Court—The smiles of a majestic Queen,Who unsuspicious of his dark intrigues—To him a friend had ever been;XI.And on him lavish'd with a hand profuse,All that a Monarch could bestow;High honours, titles, confidence, and wealth:That he had wed she could not know!XII.Though for awhile, young Amy's brilliant charmsImpress'd her image on his soul,And made him bow to duty's sacred shrineWith love, that is above control;XIII.She could not fix his wand'ring heart;For folly, vanity, and pride,Composed the intoxicating draught he took,Whose influence daily made him slideXIV.From ev'ry path of virtue, honour, truth;And as remorse assail'd his breast,In dreams of madness oft he lull'd its pow'r,But never could regain his rest!XV.Oppress'd with guilt he pass'd his weary hours,And when at night he sought repose,Tormenting visions then disturb'd his sleep,Or thought forbade his eyes to close.XVI.He never could from memory dispelHis faithful and his injured wife;An unupbraiding spectre she appear'dBeside him, through remaining life.XVII.Now what avails her splendour and her rank?Her solitude to memory recallsHer father's fondness, and his agony,And 'neath these thoughts her spirit palls!XVIII.She cheers her loneliness with hope, that sheShall shortly be the acknowledg'd brideOf her dear Lord—his greatness share— be own'd,Caress'd, and welcom'd by his side.XIX.A fruitless hope, that never could dispelThe gnawing anguish which she bore,That prey'd from day to day upon her youth,And from her bosom comfort tore!XX.I think I see and hear her plead,Her bright eyes dimm'd with tears,The bloom upon her cheek hath fled,Pale—languid—she appears.XXI.Her brow by melancholy's mark'd,No flash of wit is there;With anxious throbs her breast beats high,Which shows the anguish there.XXII."O! do not break this heart!" she says,"Thou know'st 'tis all thine own;"Think of the many hours I pass"Sad, weary, and alone!XXIII."Think of my father's hoary locks—"The fond paternal smile"That used to play upon his face,"And I beside him while!XXIV."Think of his care‐worn visage now,"Since he hath lost his child!"Oh! his is bitt'rest agony:—"Thou know'st he's almost wild.XXV."Thou wouldst not have his curse alight"Upon my wretched head!"Ere I can tell the truth, I fear"To learn his spirit's fled.XXVI."What matter that I'm free from guilt,"If others think not so?"Remember—'twas thy promises"That plung'd our house in woe.XXVII."Then lead me from concealment forth,"And let me bear thy name!"For in my conduct nought shall be"To blight thy rising fame."XXVIII."Amy," says Leicester, "why annoy me thus?"I tell thee, that I cannot yet declare"That thou art mine—thou must endure thy lot!"Destruction waits me if I linger here.XXIX."Behold this gorgeous palace, and survey"The beauty, splendour, treasures it contains!"Be happy and content, till Fortune shall"Confirm our bliss—she surely this ordains!XXX."Mourn not that for a season I depart!"For absence but increases love of thee;"My speed—my charger's foam—will fully show"How Amy is, and shall be, lov'd my me."XXXI.He bids adieu! and mounts his prancing steed—Quick from her sight he disappears:She gazes long—then lifts her soul to Heav'n,And drowns her sighs in fervent pray'rs.XXXII.Simple she was, and ne'er had learnt deceit,So could not scan the statesman's mind,That by too subtle policy was warp'd:Generous she deem'd him still, and kind,XXXIII.And faithful—nor could she for a moment dreamThat he would e'er forsake his wife,Whom he with ardour had so lately sought,And blight at once her dawn of life,XXXIV.By seeking honours at his Sovereign's feet,Unlawful, visionary too,That must involve him in a maze of guilt,His bride in one of ceaseless woe.XXXV.But so it was! Affection faded soon,His mad ambition reign'd supreme,He in the mist of distance saw a Crown,Could he forget his vows, and win the Queen.XXXVI.Accursed sin! that wither'd with a deadly blightEach seed of virtue, and each noble thought;That blasted all his happiness, and causedHis days with sorrow to be fraught.XXXVII.'Twas not the fault of England's Queen, that heShould ev'ry sacred duty leave,And kneel, and flatter, and his homage pay,To win her heart, and to deceive.XXXVIII.No, let future ages read his crime,In all its naked hideous shame;But they must weep for her whom he destroy'd,While hatred shall attend his name.JOB.Were I to turn the vast historic page,In search of highest human worth,Where could I find so luminous an orb—To shed such radiant beams on earth—As in the patient sufferings of Job?Of Edom once a mighty PrinceWho p'rhaps in wealth, in goodness—wisdom—Pow'r—ne'er hath been equall'd since.Behold the piety of this exalted man!And see him hurl'd in one short hourFrom greatness, glory, majesty, and pomp;From wealth, from happiness, and pow'r!There's not a murmur issues from his lips!He who in regal splendour shoneSo lately—surrounded by a comely raceOf offspring—now is left alone—And desolate—and poor—without one childTo soothe him with a fond caress—To catch the drops that down his cheeks must fall—And say, my father, still I thee can bless!Oh! this desolation of a parent's heartMust be unutterably keen!No tongue can tell—no soul conceive the woe—The bitter woe—this must have been!But here, alas! did not his trials end:With anguish must his frame be torn—Disease that's loathsome—horrible—that bidsHim be from ev'ry creature borne!Now see the mighty Monarch of the east,Thrown from his kingdom, sceptre, crown!His purple robes are but for sack‐cloth chang'd!A dung‐heap for a bed of dawn!But still the man of God unceasingly displaysSubmission to the will of Heav'n:Owns he "brought nothing into life," and hopesHis ev'ry sin to be forgiv'n.A FRAGMENT.I.Stupendous is the majesty of God!Boundless and wonderful His pow'r:His eye omniscient the wide world commands,His goodness keeps us ev'ry hour.II.His word supports Creation amid space,'T shall bid its grandeur pass away!Worlds when He speaks will crumble 'neath His feet,And start to life man's sleeping clay!III.No matter where the elements may rot—On waves be borne—by winds be driv'n;Each atom soon shall find its proper place,When the reanimating word is giv'n!IV.And fathomless as is the mighty deep,Expansive as the concave sky,Pond'rous and num'rous as the tow'ring steeps,And bright as is the sun on high—V.They all must perish!—The verdure witherFrom our sight—the flowers decay—The mountains fall—the lucid streams be dried,That sportive at their base now play.VI.Fearful will be the ruin of that day!O! who can contemplate the dread—The horror and dismay—when earth shall melt,And the loud trump awake the dead!VII.What is that shall brave the awful wreckOf worlds, of nature, and of time;That countless ages never can destroyNor lessen? It must live sublime!VIII.'Tis the soul, the immortal part of man,From God an emanation bright,—Commensurate with eternity shall live,Enjoying knowledge, bliss, and light!MON AME EST UN RAYON.*(Par Alphonse de Lamartine.)C'est peu de croire en toi, bonté, beauté suprême!Je te cherche partout, j'aspire à toi, je t'aime!Mon ame est un rayon de lumière et d'amour,Qui, du foyer divin détaché pour un jour,De désirs dévorans loin de toi consummée,Brûle de remonter â sa source enflammée.Je respire, je sens, je pense, j'aime en toi!Ce monde qui te cache est transparent pour moi;C'est toi que je découvre au fond de la nature,C'st toi que je bénis en toute créature.Pour m'approcher de toi, j'ai fui dans ces déserts;Là, quand l'aube, agitant son voile eans les airs,Entr'ouvre l'horizon qu'un jour naissant colore,Et sème sur les monts les perles de l'aurore,Pour moi c'est ton regard qui, du divin séjour,S'entr'ouvre sur le monde et lui répand le jour;Quand l'astre à son midi, supendant sa carrière,M'inonde de chaleur, de vie, et de lumière,Dans ses puissans rayons, qui raniment mes sens,Seigneur, c'est ta vertu, ton souffle que je sens;Et quand la nuit, guidant sa cortège d'étoiles,Sur le monde endormi jette ses sombres voiles,Seul, an sein du désert et de l'obscurité,Méditant de la nuit la douce majesté,Enveloppè de calme, et d'ombre et de silence,Mon ame de plus près adore ta présence;D'un jour intérieur je me sens éclairer,Et j'entends une voix qui me dit d'espérer.*

In attempting to translate the writings of Foreigners into our own tongue, two things are especially necessary:—first, to render the translation as literal as possible; and secondly, to enter so fully into the feelings and ideas of the Author, as to be able to convey, in a perspicuous manner, a just apprehension of them to the mind of the reader. With these objects in view, my translation of this Poem has been produced; and though, in some of the stanzas, there are a few more words than the original contains, I think there are not more than are calculated to do justice to the sublime conceptions of its talented Author. Finding the lines in the original rather too long, I have adopted the simple Iambic stanza, as being best calculated to afford scope for the exuberance of the poet's imagination, and preserve at the same time the ease and grace of his composition.

MY SOUL IS A RAY.(Translated from the annexed.)I.'Tis little to believe in God,His goodness, splendour, pow'r!I search for Thee—aspire to Thee—And love Thee ev'ry hour!II.My soul's a ray of love and light,Descended for a whileFrom Thee, its high and splendid source,And lives but in Thy smile.III.By its unfetter'd fires consumed,If Thou thy face conceal:It longs to re‐ascend to Thee,And all thy glory feel.IV.In Thee I breathe, I live, I think,I love! and in this world,Which hideth Thee as with a veil,I see thy pow'r unfurl'd.V.Oft to the dreary wastes I fly,To bring myself to Thee;And when the dawn displays her sailsAlong the etherial sea;VI.And the horizon ting'd by dayAll glorious appears;And fair Aurora on the mounts,Scatters her pearly tears:VII.'Tis then I see Thy radiant smile,Pouring effulgent light,From Thine abode, upon this world,Emerging from the night.VIII.When at meridian height the sunIts bright career suspends,O'erwhelms with heat, with life, and light,And all its influence lends,IX.T' infuse fresh vigour in my mind,Then I thy presence own;Thine excellence, O Lord, I feel,Which gives me bliss alone.X.When night her starry concourse leads,And casts upon the worldHer sable vesture—I alone,And in her darkness furl'd,XI.Gaze on the splendour of the night,In silence robed, and calm:My soul then nearer draws to Thee—T'adore is all its charm.XII.And in my breast I feel a rayOf animating light,And hear a voice that seems to say,"O let thy hope grow bright."TO BYRON.I.O thou noble, glorious, and immortal Bard!Whose mighty thoughts, like lightning's flame,Dart on the soul with an electric force,And blazon on each heart thy name!II.Whose pow'rs descriptive realize to each,Who reads thy pages, ev'ry truthThat thou with matchless skill hast painted there;Thy care‐worn prime and blighted youth!III.O! who could feel as thou hast felt? I grieve,That one whose spirit grasp'd the world,Whose thoughts reach'd heav'n, who read the human heart,From earthly comfort should be hurl'd!IV.Had she who first thy young affections shared,Seen how their blight would fatal prove;She never could have cast such chilling slightUpon that heart, which sought alone her love.V.I read thy glowing pages with delight,With wonder, reverence, and awe;The beautiful, the dark, the grand, which thou hast drawn,Surpass by far, all I e'er read or saw!VI.Whether 'tis nature with a smiling face,Or in the majesty of storm,That thou wouldst paint, with equal grace and truthThou show'st her rich and varied form!VII.Oppressive and o'erwhelming were thy woes;I know not how thy spirit boreThe ills that follow'd thee—a sweeping flood!That from thee ev'ry treasure tore.VIII.No wonder that, with an impetuous force,It sometimes carried thee away,And cast thee in a gulph of error! IWonder more, thou couldst those errors stay.IX.Thy country never truly knew thy worth,Whilst thou wert pouring forth thy soulIn beauties rich, magnificent, sublime,Thine impress stamp'd upon the whole!X.But now, her sons and daughters shall henceforthBe emulous thy praise to sing;And their glad homage nations yet unbornTo thy glorious tomb shall bring!XI.May she who living now thine image wears,Treasure thee, her sire, within her heart!Nor let the love which thou didst feel for her,E'er from her memory depart!XII.The blight of time upon thy brilliant brow,Can't dim the laurels thou hast won!Ages shall swell the ocean of thy fame,And bid its heaving waves roll on!EDEN,THE FALL AND ITS FATAL CONSEQUENCES.I.Methinks I see the Paradise of God,Fair, fresh, and teeming with luxuriant bloom;The glowing Eden made for fickle man,Ere sin had cast upon its face a gloom.Methinks I hear the ecstatic sounds of praise,Of grateful song, that this sweet spot did fill,Arising from each heart that dwelt within,Ere loss of innocence bade their tongues be still.With joy I see the parents of our race,While straying with ineffable delight,Amid the verdant groves—the tow'ring trees—The playing fountains and the streamlets bright—Amid the ambrosial sweets of flow'rs and shrubs,That load with rich perfume the ambient air,Dazzling with brightest hues the enraptur'd sight,And birds of song that hover here and there,With gayest plumage crown'd—that fill their bow'rsWith sweetest melody—while with glad hasteMan plucks the refreshing fruits, that grace the boughsIn rich profusion, to invite the taste.O! how I feel my soul ascend on high,When fancy thus the new Creation shows!Had I a seraph's wing I'd mount to heav'n,To tell the ardent praise with which it glows.How must I from such joyous heights descend,To contemplate the wreck that sin hath made?Man fallen from his Maker's image—allHis pow'rs of high enjoyment prostrate laid.The stain that disobedience hath wrought, unfitsHis soul for holy peace—God says depart!And nature, with a gloomy veil o'ercast,Denies her freshness to his wither'd heart!II.To toil, to penitence, and tears consign'd,Man leaves his native and his blest abode;In pristine vigour he no longer breathes,But groans beneath his guilt's oppressive load.He waits his offspring's birth with anxious hope,Thinking it will his sorrows much decrease,And make remorse sit lighter on his heart,By smiles of love, of innocence, and peace.The father's fondness traces in his childEach opening beauty, and expanding grace;He never dreams that keener pangs will tearHis breast, and ev'ry gleam of joy erase!T' augment his hopes, a second son is born,Whose mind's display'd e'en in the bud of life,And blended with the bloom of infancy.Are meekness, patience, and a dread of strife.The parents, as they watch the children's growth,Too soon perceive their eldest's awful pride:They weep for sin's first fruits, and tenderly,And oft, their wayward, reckless, first born chide.They think example and instruction, mustOf sin destroy the latent seed—that yearsWill consummate the rising joy they feel,And children's tenderness absorb their tears.O, sweet delusion! that awhile withheldThe dire reality of guilt and death,On which they must with thrilling horror gaze,And feel its poignant anguish while they've breath.'Twas well they ne'er could penetrate the cloudsThat veil'd the future—'twould have rent in twainTheir hearts, to have cast one glance upon the woe,And thrown o'er life unmitigated pain.III.With horror I behold the knife upraised,By brother's hand, to shed a brother's blood—The holy Martyr's bitter, dying pains!And hear his groans, and in the purple floodThat gushes fast, his ebbing life I see!No wish of vengeance darkens his last breath!He feels 'tis nearly o'er—that heav'n is nigh—And waits resign'd the coming sleep of death:And in his meek, uplifted eye, there beamsForgiveness to his ruthless murderer!IV.How my blood curdles in my veins, while IGaze on the sire afflicted—agonized—Beside the bloody corse of his dear son;Each vital pow'r subdued and paralyzedBy the internal anguish which he feels;While pale and motionless—a dewy coldO'erspreading his enfeebled, trembling limbs,The victim of revenge he doth behold!He hath no strength to utter his deep woe,His faltering lips refusing to relieveHis frighted soul—his eyes are dim—his tongueFetter'd—the horrid deed he can't believe!Reason forsakes her empire at the sight!And leaves him, like a monumental stone,Bewilder'd by a maze of sin and death,Oblivion's veil a moment o'er him thrown.Soon must his soul the awful truth endure,That Cain hath reckless shed his brother's blood!Crimson'd the fertile earth with human gore—Reason returns and brings it like a mighty flood.Sudden he writhes beneath the conscious guilt,That his first sin infused thro' all mankind:His lips now utterance regain—his wordsRush forth—impetuous as the stormy wind."My God!" with deep emotion he exclaims,"Oh! never, till this moment hath my soulThe awful depth of poisoning sin conceived!But now its pow'r o'erwhelms without control.'Tis scarcely possible for demons' pangsTo exceed the swelling agony I feel!My pray'rs for mercy it forbids to rise,And surely 'twill again my senses steal!With frightful horror now my spirit feelsHow wretched, vile, and desolate am I!More vast than ocean's fathomless abyss—And wider than this canopy the sky—Must dire effects of disobedience runThro' all the future progeny of man!Well we deserved that Thou shouldst cast us hence,Ere its pollution thro' our offspring ran!O glorious, and Almighty God! who sav'stThy guilty creatures from eterual death,By the atoning fount Thou openest wide,Guard us from sin while Thou bestow'st our breath!"V."Oh woman! thou who didst in travail bearThe murd'rer and his victim, and hath bless'dEach babe a thousand times with equal love!Who taught their tongues in pray'r to lisp, and caughtEach accent as it fell! From thy fair breastEach drew the stream of life, and thus repaidThe agony of thy maternal throes.But now thy first‐born in the dust hath laidHis brother! with one fell and fatal blow!Oh! come not near, nor gaze upon the scene!'Twill turn thy brain! and I would not beholdThee 'reft of reason, as of sons thou hast been."VI.Oh, Cain! thou fratricide and living shameOf thy bereaved and frantic mother's womb!To her no more a son canst thou e'er be,Thau if enclosed within thy brother's tomb.Hence! thou hast wither'd all my vig'rous strength,My manhood's prime is like a blighted oak!Thou hast crown'd my days with sorrow—my nightsWith dreams that must disturb repose! This strokeSo heavy! more than tempest's pow'r! had driv'nMy soul to dark despair—but that I seeThro' faith, beyond the grave, a promis'd rest—Where I from sin's dominion may be free.Oh, Cain! behold thy mother's agony!Look on thy widow'd sister and thy sire!Their desolation and thy brother's blood!Oh, seek for refuge from the Almighty's ire!Thou more than monster! hideous as the fiendThat tempted thee to this unnatural deed!I will not curse thee—but I cannot bless.Begone! and let remorse thine anguish feed!The curse of God is written on thy brow,Still may'st thou by his mercy be forgiv'n,Oh! let the remnant of thy days on earthBe spent to fit thy guilty soul for heav'n!"MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS.For ages past tears have been shed for thee,Thou beauteous, lovely, and ill‐fated Queen;Stern hearts have melted at thy bitter woes—That so many to thy charms had victims been!To paint thy form—that mock'd the sculptor's pow'r,Describe thy face—that shamed the painter's art—Thy graceful mien—thy captivating smiles—Wants words, e'en poet's fancy can't impart!Thou didst in mind, as well as person shine,In youth a star of such attractive pow'r,As drew by its bright rays all who beheld,To gaze, admire, pay homage, ev'ry hour.But hadst thou known the poison that's distill'dFrom tongues that flatter, only to deceive,Which runs insidiously through every nerve,And doth of peace and worth the mind bereave;The page of history had ne'er been stamp'dWith deeds, alas! with crimes which thou hast done,But acts transcendant might have been display'd,To dazzle like the splendour of the sun.'Tis sad to view thee upon Gallic soil,Deprived so young of thy protecting Lord;Restrain'd, admonish'd, and oppress'd by her,Who should have been the first relief to afford.She should have wept with thee when sorrow came,Aud o'er thee waved the ensign of defence,—Guarded thy ardent youth from ev'ry snare—Not have resented ev'ry slight offence.'Twas cruel, by unkindness, to compelThy feet to quit that lov'd, and frnitful shore,Where thou hadst found so many joys, and friends'Mong whom thou ne'er couldst gather gladness more!I see thy bark upon the deep,Thyself prepared the watch to keep,To strain thine eyes upon that land,And wave in fond adieus thy hand!Thou couldst not cease to gaze while lightBestow'd the privilege of sight.When night around his curtain drew,And over others kindly threwThat weariness which leads to rest,Still, still, thy troubled, throbbing breast,Disdain'd to do as others did:Thou only laid'st thy weary headUpon a couch prepared for thee:Where thou at earliest dawn mightst seeThe fast‐receding shores of France—Bestow on them a final glance—In memory hide their lessen'd view,And so thy previous joys renew.The accents from thy lips that fell,When thou didst speak the word farewell;(A word which hadst thou spoke for ever,Could yet not half thy grief discover),Perturb'd the hearts of all around,Who echoed back the mournful sound,Until it died upon the deep,But still thou didst thy station keep.Attain'd at length thy native land,Around thee clung a gallant bandOf patriots, loyal to their Queen,Tho' rough as they had ever been.Now, a thousand shouts are pealing,To welcome Mary home,From her anxious bosom stealingA part of sorrow's gloom.She hears the rapturous greetingWith a soothing gladness,And resolves the joyous meetingShall disperse her sadness.She was not hail'd by softest strainsFrom lute and harp resounding,Nor by the songs of nymphs and swains,Like deer o'er mountains bounding.No maidens of a sylph‐like mien,With joyful haste surround her,With garlands to adorn their Queen,And scatter flow'rs around her.Of Scotland's gallant sons and peers,She the loyalty could see,While hail'd with loud and deaf'ning shoutsFrom the noble, brave, and free;More welcome far than dazzling sheen—Than the grandeur she had left—To Mary's heart this should have been,Tho' of servile homage 'reft.I leave thee now 'mid the rapturous throng,A Goddess belov'd thy people among.I hail thee again on thy regal seat,Approach'd with honours that ever are meet,For patriots to pay their sovereign Queen,Were she less attractive in smiles and mien.O, could I behold thee henceforth as now,With joy in thy heart, and peace on thy brow—Adorn'd with the lustre of beauty and youth—The more brilliant gems of virtue and truth—Untainted by vice—unfurrow'd by care—Bright as the crown thou wert destin'd to wear!So great were thy charms, thou hadst need of a mind,Exalted and pure, as well as refined.How couldst thou, Mary, the homage receiveOf so many hearts? 'twas but to deceive!How couldst thou bestow on d'Anville thy smile,The Lord of another neglected the while?Why permit Arran to think of thy hand,While to young Gordon, the pride of the land,Thou gavest the hope of becoming his bride—Of seeing thee seated in pomp by his side—Belov'd and adored with the fervour of truth—Himself in the bloom and the vigour of youth.The boast of thy bold, thy glorious nation—The honour, the pride, the hope of his station?But oh! why allow the intrigues of the base,From thy heart all glow of compassion to chase?Why sign the foul deed for the ignoble fateOf him, who if living, had strengthen'd thy state?How couldst thou that youth on the scaffold behold,Whose fondness for thee can never be told.—And live? When thou saw'st the devoted head fall,And heard'st his last words—did they not appal?(Declaring his love unalter'd for thee,Thongh thou wert more cruel than others could be!)Instead of a swoon, 'twere a wonder that deathIn that moment should fail to deprive thee of breath!The sceptre which thou wert accustom'd to sway,Could it ever dispel the gloom of that day?Could the fair—the great, who waited on thee,E'er cause the image from thy mind to flee,Of him, whose blood had so lately been shed,On whom thou didst gaze till the spirit had fled?There's Chatelar too, whose madness betray'dT' actions too daring, for which his life paid:Who ne'er had swerv'd from a virtuous seeming,Hadst thou not indulg'd his fancy's wild dreaming.While beauty, grace, and loveliness display'dIn thee their freshness—thou didst stand array'dIn the rich plenitude of regal state,(Suspecting little of thy future fate),The day that Darnley claim'd thee for his bride,In all the fulness of inflated pride.It had been well, if, ere another sun,The dark career had closed, which now begun.Thy husband's comeliness allured thy heart,From reason's light had made thy mind depart.O! had it been thy happy lot to wedA man of honour—wisdom—in his stead,Perchance thou never mightst the woe have known,Which guilt and error o'er thy life have thrown.'Tis terrible to think how upon his mind,Have dire revenge and jealousy combinedHis deeds with horror, stratagem, and crime,Perhaps unequall'd in the lapse of time.'T were vain to paint the horror of the scene,When blood was shed e'en in thy presence, Queen;When he whom thou hadst foster'd as a friend,To whom thou didst thy smiles and converse lend,Who soothed thy sorrow—cheer'd the festive hourBy music's eloquent, consoling pow'r,Was dragg'd by vile assassins from his seat,And bathed in gore, fell helpless at thy feet!In vain with piercing shrieks he sought thy aid,And thou didst urge and plead to be obey'd!The bold intruders thirsted for his blood,From num'rous wounds escaped the gushing flood,Until his dying groans and struggles o'er,The heart of Rizzio could beat no more!Oh! agonizing must have been the pain,That tore thy heart, and darted thro' thy brain,When with maddening jealousy inspired—With demons' frightful rage and malice fired—Aghast thou didst thy reckless husband see,Amidst the ruffians who surrounded thee,Regardless of thy threats, thy cries, thy tears,By violence increasing still thy fears,Until o'ercome with horror, anger, grief,In senselessness thou didst attain a slight relief!Too soon thou wak'st to life and to revenge,Vowing thy wrongs and insults to avenge,Too well I fear thou didst thy vows perform,Too much thine actions do thy fame transform,From the bright purity of shining light,To the dense blackness of tempestuous night!Thy husband now shares thy bitt'rest hate,Denied ev'ry part in the splendour of state,E'en by the rabble is scoff'd and despised—Numbers by thee to insult are advised—Avoided, neglected, and treated with scorn—Stripp'd of his honours—abandon'd, forlorn,Assail'd, too, by sickness, that shatters his frame,And shrouds with suspicion thy dark'ning fame!Frightful's the guilt that attaches to thee,Ne'er from the stain can thy memory be free!Though myst'ry hangs o'er his terrible end,Many facts with thy name the horrid deed blend!If innocence form'd any armour of thine,O! why fail to let its brilliancy shine?When virtue is tried, it brighter appears,For ev'ry scourge and ordeal it bears.How couldst thou endure the imputed deed,That thou hadst consign'd thy husband to bleed?One that was guiltless, would shudder to think,That she stood on the fearful, slipp'ry brink,Of a chasm so wide, as now is display'd,In the grounded suspicion by each tongue betray'd.Could Charity cast a veil o'er the crime,At least from blood‐shedding shelter thy prime,How could she endure the feeling so dread—Thou with his murd'rer to instantly wed?Detestable deed! 'twas black as the guiltThat connived at the sin of his blood being spilt!The justice of Heav'n, that's ever awake,On the vile—the reckless—vengeance to take,Forbade thee that peace thou hadst hop'd to enjoy,Nor fail'd all thy schemes at once to destroy!Thy subjects rebellious, hurl'd from thy throne—A wand'rer distress'd, and almost alone—Seeking that refuge which none could bestow,Because it was deem'd that guilt caus'd thy woe.Then Bothwell, deprived of station and wife,Compell'd to suffer the hardships of life,Forsaken by all—the victim of crime—By piracy's deeds he lives for a time;On Denmark's cold shore he's finally cast,Unfriendly to him—'tis destin'd the lastThat he should e'er visit—speedily thrownInto prison and bonds, his fate to bemoan,Of comfort, of health, of senses bereft,To perish unmourn'd—unaided he's left!Confirming the truth which God hath declared,Who sheddeth man's blood shall never be spar'd!Do happier days shed their influence on thee—Art thou from sorrow and punishment free,Mary, tho' beauty still shines on thy brow?No! thou art wretched, disconsolate now!And destin'd to travail a series of yearsIn trial, restraint, affliction, and tears.Thy multiplied woes to finish in death,And yield 'neath the axe untimely thy breath.DICTÉ EN PRESENCE DU GLACIER DU RHÔNE.[*]Souvent, quand mon esprit riche en métamorphosesFlotte et roule endormi sur l'ocèan des choses,Dieu, foyer du vrai jour qui ne luit point aux yeux,Mystérieux soleil dont l'ame est embrasée,Le frappe d'un rayon, et, comme une roseé,Le ramasse et l'enlève aux cieux.Alors, nuage errant, ma haute poésieVole capricieuse, et sans route choisie,De l'occident au sud. du nord à l'orient;Et regarde, du haut des radieuses vóùtes,Les cités de la terre, et, les dédaignant toutes,Leur jette son ombre eu fuyant.Puis, dans l'or du matin luisant comme une étoile,Tantôt elle y découpe une frange à sou voile,Tantôt, comme un guerrier qui rèsonne en marchant,Elle frappe d'éclairs la forèt qui marmure;Et tantôt en passant rougit sa noire armureDans la fournaise du couchant.Enfin sur un vieux mont, colosse à tête grise,Sur les Alpes de neige un vent jaloux la brise,Qu'importe! Suspendn sur l'abîme beantLe nuage se change en un glacier snblime,Et des mille fleurons qui hérissent sa cime,Fait une coureonne au géant!Comme le haut cimier du mont inabordable,Alors il dresse au loin sa crête formídable,L'arc‐en‐ciel vacillant joue à son flauc d'acier;Et, chaque soir, tandis que l'ombre en bas l'assiége,Le soleil, ruisselant en lave sur sa neige,Change en cratère le glacier.Son front blanc dans la nuit semble une aube éternelle;Le chamois effaré, dont le pied vaut une aile,L'aigle même le craint, sombre et silencieux;La tempéte à ses pieds tourbillonne et se traîne, L'oeil ose à peine atteindre à sa face sereine,Tant il est avant dans les cieux!Et seul, à ces hauteurs, sans crainte et sans vertigeMon esprit, de la terre oubliant le prestige,Voit le jour étoilé, le ciel qui n'est plus bleu,Et contemple de près ces splendeurs sideralesDont la nuit sème au loiu ses sombre cathédrales,Jusqu'à ce qu'un rayon de Dieu.Le frappe de nouveau, le précipite, et change,Les prismes du glacier en flots mélés de fange;Alors il croule, alors, éveillant mille échos,Il retombe en torrent dans l'océan du monde,Chaos aveulge et sourd, mer immense et profonde,Où se resemblent tous les flots!Au gré du divin souffle ainsi vont mes pensées,Dans un cercle éternel incessamment poussées.Du terrestre océan dont les flots sont amers,Comme sous un rayon monte une nue épaisse,Elles moutent tonjours vers le ciel, et sans cesseRedescendent des cieux aux mers.* The reader will observe, that each stanza in this translation contains one line more than the original. Had I confined myself to the same number of lines as the Author has employed, the English would have been exceedingly cramped and irregular, owing to the very slight analogy existing between the two languages in poetical compositions, particularly in one so exclusively imaginative as this poem. Wherever the words could not be literally translated consistent with English versification, the meaning of the Author has been carefully considered, and such expressions used, as are best adapted to portray the powerful and brilliant ideas of the poet, at least as far as the translator is capable of judging: notwithstanding I have granted myself the privilege of an extra line, I have not been able to preserve precise regularity in numbers.DICTATED IN THE PRESENCE OF THE GLACIER OF THE RHONE.Oft when my mind in transformations rich,Floats tranquilly over the ocean of things,And God who's the centre of that true light,Which over the soul its vivid flame flings—Mysterious sun—not display'd to our sight,That darts on the mind, then absorbs it like dew,And wafts it to Heaven.My Muse then raised on high—a wand'ring cloudCapricious flies, without a chosen path,From West to South, from North to East,And from the radiant vaults full pow'r she hathTo gaze on cities of the world, and cast,Disdainful of them all, her shadowO'er them as she flies.Like a star she then shines in the gold of morn;And fringes with glory her radiant veil,Sometimes as a warrior whose footsteps resound,With lightning she strikes the grove, where the galeMurmurs thro'—then onward she moves, and is foundTo crimson her robe in that furnace of fireWhich sun‐set displays.Upon an ancient mount at last, with grey,Colossal head—'mong snowy Alps she's ranged,What matter? suspended o'er the chasm wide,The cloud to a superb Glacier is chang'd,Whose summit's so studded with gems—in pride,His glittering crown the magnificentGiant displays.Like a mount, whose height we cannot approach,He now raises on high his tow'ring crest,While the rainbow sports at his pond'rous side,And each eve, while mists from earth meet his breast,The torrents quick roll, and the gushing stream glide'Neath the sun's melting pow'r—the Glacier anonTo a crater is turn'd.His white front by night seems eternal dawn—The Chamois 's amazed, whose feet are as wings:By the gloomy taciturn eagle it's fear'd—The tempest that roars, at his feet now flingsIts impetuous force, and the eye hath scarce daredIts aspect serene t' approach, so much above usIn the Heavens it is.Alone on this height from giddiness free—And from fear—forgetting the illusions of earth,The stars succeeding to day my soul then surveys—The azure of Heav'n no longer shine forth—The splendour which night's fast approach displays,As she scatters her sombre beauties afar,Till a ray from on highStrikes my spirit anew—then forces it down,And the Glacier's bright prisms transformsInto waves mix'd with mire—then it shakes—A torrent in the ocean of life's stormsRefalls, and a thousand echos awakes—Blind and deaf Chaos—sea immense, profound,Where all waves re‐meet.As wills the breath Divine doth my spirit range,Unceasingly urg'd in an eternal round:As moisture's exhaled by the sun's powerful rays,And then t' ascend as a thick cloud is found,From the depths where bitter waves swell—awayMy thoughts soar to Heav'n, but as constant descendTo the ocean again.EVENING.I.The sun's last rays now tinge the sky,With hues as lovely as the dyeThat light reflects upon the flow'rs.Which scent our homes and grace our bow'rs,There's scarce a rustle 'mong the trees,So gentle is the passing breeze,And ceased hath ev'ry warbler's song,That dwells these charming vales among.And there's a holy calm around,Augmented by the distant soundOf water's murmur, as it sweepsO'er pebbles—rushes from the steeps,Or foams along the small cascade,Across its silv'ry bosom laid.The rocks that rise on either side,In their majestic hoary pride,Now cast a welcome gloom o'er all,Where'er their mighty shadows fall.And hush'd in peace all nature seems,As tranquil as an infant's dreams,When sleeping on its mother's breast,While dimpled smiles proclaim it blest.II.'Tis the hour, when friendship's feeling,Thro' the faithful bosom stealing,Inspires that rapture in the mind,With which this sacred theme's combined.III.'Tis now we feel for those we loveMost tenderness, and waft aboveOur thoughts, and pray'rs, that Heav'n may giveIts choicest blessings while they live!That nought may ever disunite,Nor time e'er cast a with'ring blightOn those affections that now grow,And o'er our lives a halo throw!IV.'Tis now we think upon the dead,And weep for those whose souls are fled,Recall to mind the cherish'd past,That gave us joys too bright to last.We think on seasons mark'd by sorrow,And from their dark shades solace borrow;For when we watch the sick one's bed,And raise the wearied languid head,And o'er the sinking spirit pourThe balm of hope, we rob the hourOf half its anguish, and impartSweet comfort to the sinking heart.Remembrance such as this will giveA secret pleasure while we live.V.I've often watch'd the suff'rer's eye,When dimm'd by sickness, and the sighEscaping from the heaving breast,When from the pillow hath fled rest.And I've been blest, and blest again,In such a tender grateful strain,I hear those gentle accents still,That now with joy my spirit fill.VI.'Tis the hour when toil reposes,Its command oppression loses,The humble and the poor are free,And happy as the great can be.Nature smiles on all who love her—Heav'n the twilight robe casts o'er her,Softening all her radiant charms,While the soul with rapture warms.VII.E'en warriors in the battle fieldThe conflict stay—to slumber yield.The clash of arms—the bloody fight—Must cease beneath the veil of night:A welcome cov'ring to each foe,That can around his senses throwOblivion of the past, and present dread,And sleep amid the dying and the dead.LINESON THE DEATH OF MY BROTHER.My brother! my brother! my spirit oft cries,My brother! my brother! repeat my sad sighs;Thou art fled, dear youth, from thy sister's embrace,Thou hast finish'd thy short but peaceable race.A Saviour thou knewest while here thou didst stay,A Saviour who lov'd thee, hath borne thee away,And wash'd from thy sins in the streams of his blood,Thou triumph'st secure in the presence of God!Yes! thou hast obtained eternity's rest—With saints and with angels for ever art blest;For the prize thou didst fight, and the prize thou hast won,And thy last breath proclaim'd " 'tis finish'd!" 'tis done!Revered be thy memory, and honour'd thy dust,That reposes on earth, as I shortly must!Thy image shall live in this bosom of mine—I'll cherish each page and each relic of thine.Thy grave I'll bedew with the tears of my love,And cling to the hope I may meet thee above;With faith and with hope I will peacefully dwell,Oft rememb'ring the lips that bade me farewell!And the kiss that spoke thy departure was nigh,When with fervour we pray'd thy spirit might flyTo those happy realms where no sorrow can rise—Where "God himself wipes ev'ry tear from our eyes!"THE FORSAKEN.A TALE.I.I saw her graceful form pass by,And caught her soft expressive eye,That beamed with radiance benign,With truth and holiness divine;Yet such a melancholy hueIt o'er her comely features threw,She seemed to think upon the dead,Or dream of joys that now were fled;As if the world for her containedNo charms; but in her bosom reignedA grief, that nothing could o'ercome;Altho' she strove to hide the gloomThat pray'd upon her heart, and stoleThe quick vivacity of soul,That used to flash across that brow—So joyless, and so faded now.Who can behold her wasted frame,Think on her chaste unsullied name,Nor weep for woes that nearly brokeHer tender heart at one fell stroke?II.I've seen her like an angel bright,Descended from the realms of light,To scatter blessings all around,Where'er a need of them was found;For she hath enter'd oft the doorOf those who were distress'd and poor,And patient heard their tales of grief—With joy bestow'd the wish'd relief,And smil'd with such transcendent grace,In ev'ry little suppliant's face,That seemed to ask her fost'ring care,And drew from her affection's tear!III.I've seen her by the dying bedOf one whose soul to bliss hath fled,When she the fragile form caress'd,And oft in tender accents bless'd;Where she with more than sister's love,And fond, and faithful, as the dove,Dried the tears that dimm'd the eye,And sought to quell each rising sigh;Press'd the quivering lips so dear,And even made a smile play there.But as the sinking frame hath shownThat pains and woes were nearly done,I've mark'd the lustre of her eyeGrow brighter, as the hour drew nigh,When she, the object of her care,With joy ecstatic should appearBefore the God who gave her breath,And smoothed the agonies of death.IV.I've seen her by affliction's bed,When from the suff'rer's breast had fledThe dreams of hope, and seated there,Were anguish, woe, and dark despair.How terrible the horror now,That hangs upon her heavy brow!The rapid throbbings of her heart,That fain would make despair depart!The inward agony she feels!The chill that thro' her blood now steals!Now speechless for awhile she viewsThe visage wet with deathly dews,Then with one convulsive motion,Quells her struggling dire emotion,And tries to chase distress away,And shed of peace the heav'nly ray;For well she knew the word of God,Its precepts were the path she trod.Nor would she quit the awful spot,Till pain was gone, and life was not.Who saw her then ne'er could forgetHer words of comfort—her regret—That she could not the soul inspireWith her own celestial fire!V.There cannot be so great a woe,With such a fatal pow'r to throwA fearful horror thro' the breast,And so completely 'reave of rest,As when we see the spirit's flight,Without one cheering ray of light!VI.She's now the comfort of her sire,Who tries to quench that latent fire,Which lingers still within her soul,And doth its vig'rous pow'rs control:Like blight upon a blushing rose,That still some fragrance doth disclose,Tho' from its corolla hath fledThe bloom of beauty, and instead,Are wither'd petals, falling fast,Beneath the wind's most gentle blast.VII.She's too her mother's only joy,And sometimes even can destroyThe griefs, by tenderness and care,Which on that mother's face appear;But never can obtund the painSo thrilling, that across her brainOft flies with agonizing pow'r,When she surveys the wither'd flow'r,That graceful still before her bends,And anxious, ev'ry effort lends,To drive the settled gloom away,Which darkly clouds life's waning day:When she beholds the faded form—The visage pale—the wreck of storm—The grief‐worn breast—that still beats highWith oft suppress'd, yet rising sigh,Who should have been, in her last hour,The child of joy, with magic pow'rTo lessen all the pangs of grief—By her gay smiles t' afford relief—Like sun‐shine in a Winter's day,That bids its gloom to pass away.VIII.How oft have I with gladness seenThis daughter's winning smiles and mien,Delight infuse thro' ev'ry breast,While they proclaim'd her lov'd and blest.She was a tree of stately growth,Though young, that brightest buds put forth.And now I must the guilt unveil,That forms the basis of this tale—That hath transform'd her as she is—And show the suff'rings that are his,Who work'd this ruin in her heart,And made life's joyous dreams depart.IX.He came to win her gen'rous youth,Beneath the specious garb of truth,Of honour, probity, and worth;And much of these indeed shone forthIn his intreaties and his vows,Which fail'd not in her breast to rouseThe love which he so fondly sought,Each gleam of which he gladly caught:He for awhile display'd such faith,As promis'd but to end with death;The priestly garments which he wore,The high encomiums he boreUpon his conduct and his name,Too soon call'd forth the fatal flame.On him had been of late bestow'dThat little Church beside the road,Which lifts its pretty tow'ring spire,A beacon to devotion's fireIn ev'ry heart. 'Twas there he sawThe being first, whose charms could drawAffection from the wise and good,'Mid ev'ry scene, in ev'ry mood.He mark'd the meek and holy glowOf praise, that never fail'd to throwA soften'd lustre o'er her brow,So brilliant then, so deathly now.He saw her 'mid the festive scene,Where she appear'd the dazzling queen.He heard the music of her tongue,Diffusing joy her friends among.He saw the sympathetic tear,At ev'ry sight of woe appear.And when he sought her for his own,He little thought his heart had grownSo fickle, false, and vile, that heThe cause of her distress should be;He reckon'd not that he should fallA victim to ambition's call—The tool of folly and deceit,Th