So oft hath into chaos hurl'd
The systems of the ancient world!
The warrior here, in arms no more, Thinks of the toil, the conflict o'er, And glorying in the rights they won For hearth and altar, sire and son, Smiles on the dusky webs that hide His sleeping sword's remember'd pride! While Peace, with sunny cheeks of toil, Walks o'er the free, unlorded soil, Effacing with her splendid share
The drops that War had sprinkled there! Thrice happy land! where he who flies From the dark ills of other skies, From scorn, or want's unnerving woes, May shelter him in proud repose! Hope sings along the yellow sand His welcome to a patriot land; The mighty wood, with pomp, receives The stranger in its world of leaves, Which soon their barren glory yield To the warm shed and cultured field;
And he, who came, of all bereft,
To whom malignant Fate had left
Nor home nor friends nor country dear, Finds home and friends and country here!
Such is the picture, warmly such,
That long the spell of Fancy's touch Hath painted to my sanguine eye Of man's new world of liberty! Oh! ask me not if Truth will seal The reveries of Fancy's zeal, If yet my charmed eyes behold These features of an age of gold- No-yet, alas! no gleaming trace! * Never did youth, who loved a face From portrait's rosy, flattering art, Recoil with more regret of heart,
*Such romantic works as The American Farmer's Letters, and the Account of Kentucky, by IMLAY, would seduce us into a belief, that innocence, peace, and freedom had deserted the rest of the world, for Martha's Vineyard and the banks of the Ohio. The French travellers too, almost all from revolutionary motives, have contributed their share to the diffusion of this flattering misconception. A visit to the country is, however, quite sufficient to correct even the most enthusiastic prepossession.
Where painting pour'd the sapphire's ray, Than I have felt, indignant felt,
To think the glorious dreams should melt, Which oft, in boyhood's witching time, Have wrapt me to this wondrous clime!
But, courage yet, my wavering heart! Blame not the temple's meanest part, Till you have traced the fabric o'er :- As yet, we have beheld no more Than just the porch to Freedom's fane, And, though a sable drop may stain The vestibule, 'tis impious sin To doubt there's holiness within! So here I pause-and now, my KATE, To you (whose simplest ringlet's fate Can claim more interest in my soul Than all the Powers from pole to pole)
*Norfolk, it must be owned, is an unfavourable specimen of America. The characteristics of Virginia in general are not such as can delight either the politician or the moralist, and at Norfolk they are exhibited in their least attractive form. At the time when we arrived, the yellow fever had not yet disappeared, and every odour that assailed us in the streets very strongly accounted for its visitation.
One word at parting-in the tone
Most sweet to you, and most my own. The simple notes I send you here,* Though rude and wild, would still be dear, If you but knew the trance of thought In which my mind their murmurs caught. "Twas one of those enchanting dreams, That lull me oft, when Music seems To pour the soul in sound along, And turn its every sigh to song! I thought of home, the according lays Respired the breath of happier days; Warmly in every rising note
I felt some dear remembrance float, Till, led by Music's fairy chain, I wander'd back to home again! Oh! love the song, and let it oft Live on your lip, in warble soft! Say that it tells you, simply well, All I have bid its murmurs tell, Of memory's glow, of dreams that shed
The tinge of joy when joy is fled,
* A trifling attempt at musical composition accompanied this Epistle.
And all the heart's illusive hoard
Of love renew'd and friends restored! Now, sweet, adieu-this artless air, And a few rhymes, in transcript fair,* Are all the gifts I yet can boast To send you from Columbia's coast; But when the sun, with warmer smile, Shall light me to my destined Isle, † You shall have many a cowslip-bell Where Ariel slept, and many a shell In which the gentle spirit drew From honey flowers the morning dew!
AFTER AN INTERVAL OF ABSENCE.
CONCEAL'D within the shady wood A mother left her sleeping child, And flew to cull her rustic food,
The fruitage of the forest wild.
But storms upon her path-way rise,
The mother roams, astray and weeping;
poems which immediately follow.
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