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Upon Hi'h ell vn\ side:
He loved—the pretty Barbara died,
And thus he makes his moan:
Three years had Barbara in her grave been
laid When thus his moan he made:
"Oh move, thou Cottage, from behind that
oak! Or let the aged tree uprooted lie, That in some other way yon smoke May mount into the sky! The clouds pass on; they from the heavens
depart: I look—the sky is empty spnee; I know not what I trace; But, when I cease to look, my hand is on
0! what a weight is in these shades! Ye
leaves, When will that dying murmur be supprcst? Your sound my heart of peace bereaves, It robs my heart of rest. Thou Thrush, that singest loud—and loud
and free, Into yon row of willows flit, I'pon that alder sit; Or sing another song, or choose another tree.
Roll back, sweet Rill! back to thy mountain-hounds,
And there for ever be thy waters chained!
For thou dost haunt the air with sounds
That rannot be sustained;
If still beneath that pine-tree's ragged bough
Headlong yon waterfall must come,
Oh let it then be dumb !—
Be any thing, sweet Rill, but that which thou art now.
Thou Eglantine, whose arch so proudly
towers, (tven like a rainbow spanning half the vale) Thou one fair shrub, oh! shed thy flowers, And stir not in the gale. For thus to see thee nodding in the air,— Jn sec thy arch thus stretch and bend, ■ Thus rise and thus descend,— Disturbs rac, till the sight is more than I
Tberoan who makes this feverish complaint
Thkhk is a change—and I nm poor;
What happy moments did I count!
A Well of love—it may be deep—
I trust it is, and never dry:
What matter? if the waters sleep
In silence and obscurity.
—Such change, and at the very door
Of my fond Heart, hath made me poor.
When Ruth was left half desolate
And she had made a pipe of straw,
Beneath her father's roof, alone
She seemed to live; her thoughts her own;
Herself her own delight:
Pleased with herself, nor sad nor gay,
She passed her time; and in this way
Grew up to woman's height.
There came a Youth from Georgia's shore
A military casque he wore
With splendid feathers drest;
He brought lliem from the Cherokee*;
The leathers nodded in the breeze,
And made a gallant crest.
From Indian blood you deem him sprung:
With hues of Genius on hi* cheek
In finest tones the Youth could speak.
—While he was yet a boy
The moon, the glory of the sun,
And streams that murmur as they run,
Had been his dearest joy.
He was a lovely Youth! I guess
The pnnther in the wilderness
Was not so fair as he;
And, when he chose to sport and piny
No dolphin ever was so gay
Upon the tropic sea.
Among the Indians he had fought;
And with him many, tales he brought
Of pleasure and of fear;
Such tales as, told to any Maid
By such a Youth, in the green shade,
Were perilous to hear.
He told of Girls, a happy rout!
Who quit their fold with dance and shout.
Their pleasant Indian Town,'
To gather strawberries all day long;
Returning with a choral snng
When day-light is gone down.
He spake of plants divine and strange
He told of the Magnolia, spread
The Youth of green savannahs spake,
And then he said: How sweet it were
A fisher or a hunter there,
A gardener in the shade.
Still wandering with an easy mind
To build a household-fire, and find
A home in every glade!
What days and what sweet years! Ah me!
Our life were life indeed, with thee
So passed in quiet bliss!
And all the while, said he, to know
That we were in a world of woe,
On such an earth as this!
And then he sometimes interwove
Around the heart such tender ties.
Sweet Ruth! and could you go with me
My helpmate in the woods to be;
Our shed at night to rear;
Or run, my own adopted Bride,
A sylvan Huntress at my side.
And drive the flying deer.
Beloved Ruth!—No more he said.
She thought again—and did agree
And now, as fitting is and right.
We in the Church our faith will plight.
A Husband and a Wife.
Even so they did; and I may say
That to sweet Ruth that -happy day
Was more than human life.
Through dream and vision did she sink.
But, as you have before been told.
The wind, the tempest roaring high.
The tumult of a tropic sky,
Might well be dangerous food
For him, a Youth to whom was given
So much of earth—so much of heaven.
And such impetuous blood.
Whatever in those Climes he found
Irregular in sight or sound
Did to his mind impart
A kindred impulse, seemed allied
To his own powers, and justified
Th% workings of his heart.
Nor less to feed voluptuous thought
Yet, in his worst pursuits. I ween
Bnt ill he lived, much evil Mv
His genius and his moral frame
And yet he with no feigned delight
But now the pleasant dream was gone;
Meanwhile, as thus with him it fared.
God help thee, Ruth!—Such pains she had
That she in half a year was mad
And in a prison housed;
And there, exulting in her wrongs,
Among the music of her songs
She fearfully caroused.
Vet sometimes milder hours she knew
When Ruth three seasons thus had lain
Among the fields she breathed again:
The engines of her pain, the tools
Thnt shaped her sorrow, rocks and pools.
And airs that gently stir
The vernal leaves, she loved them still,
Nor ever taxed them with the ill
Which had been done to her.
A barn her winter-bed supplies;
But till the warmth of summer-skies
And summer-days is gone,
(And all do in this tale agree)
She sleeps beneath the greenwood-tree,
And other home hath none.
An innocent life, yet far astray!
And Ruth will, long before her day,
Be broken down and old.
Sore aches she needs must have! but less
Of mind, than body's wretchedness,
From damp,, and rain, and cold.
If she is pressed by want of food,
That oaten Pipe of hers is mute,
I, too, have passed her on the hills
Farewell! and when thy days are told,
Ill-fated Ruth! in hallowed mould
Thy corpse shall buried be;
For thee a funeral bell shall ring,
And all the congregation sing
A Christian psalm for thee.
Where art thou, my beloved Son,
Seven years, alas, to have received
He was among the prime in worth,
An object beauteous to behold;
Well born, well bred; I sent him forth
Ingenuous, innocent, and bold:
If things ensued that wanted grace,
As hath been said, they were not base;
And never blush was on my face.
Ah! little doth the Young One dream,
Neglect mc! no, I suflYr'd long
From that ill thought; and hcing blind,
Said, Pride shall help me in my wrong: >
Kind mother have I been, as kind
As ever breathed; and thnt is true;
I've wet my path with tears like dew,
Weeping for him when no one knew.
My Son, if thou he humbled, poor,
Alas! the fowls of heaven have wings,
Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan,
I look for Ghosts; hut none will force
Forth aprang the impassion'd Queen her
Lord to clasp; Again that consummation she essayed; But unsubstantial Form eludes her grasp As often as that eager grasp was made. The Phantom parts—but parts to re-unite, And re-assume his place before her sight.
"Protesilaus, lo! thy guide is gone!
rejoice. Not to appal me have the Gods bestowed This precious boon,—and blest a sad abode."
"Great Jove, Laodamia, doth not leave
Thou knnwst, the Delphic oracle foretold
That the first Greek who touched the Trojan strand
Should die; but me the threat did not withhold:
A generous cause a Victim did demand;
And forth I leapt upon the sandy plain;
A self-devoted Chief—by Hector slain."
"Supreme of Heroes—bravest, noblest, best! Thy matchless courage I bewail no more, That' then, when tens of thousands were
deprest By donbt, propelled thee to the fatal shore: Thou foundst, — and I forgive thee — here
thou art— A nobler counsellor than my poor heart.
Bat thou, though capable of sternest deed, Wert kind as resolute, and pood as brave; And He, whose power restores thee, hath
decreed That thou shouldst cheat the malice of the
grave; Redundant are thy locks, thy lips as fair At when their breath enriched Thessalian air.
No Spectre greets me,—no vain Shadow this: Come, blooming Hero, place thee by my
side! (•ire, on this well-known couch, one nuptial
kiss To me, this day, a second time thy bride!" ■Jotefrowned in heaven; the conscious Parca:
threw I'pon those roseate lips a Stygian hue.
"This visage tells thee that my doom is past:
Be taught, oh faithful Consort, to control Rebellious passion: for the Gods approve The depth and not the tumult of the soul; The fervor—not the impotence of love. Thy transports moderate ; and meekly mourn When I depart', for brief is my sojourn—"
"Ah, wherefore? Did not Hercules by force Wrest from the guardian Monster of the
tomb Alcestis, a reanimated Corse, Given back to dwell on earth in beauty's
bloom? Medea's spells dispersed the weight of years, And Eson stood a Youth 'mid youthful
The Gods to us arc merciful—and they
But if thou go'st,! follow—" Peace! he said— She looked upon him and was calmed and
cheered; The ghastly colour from his lips had fled; In his deportment, shape, and mien, appeared Elysian beauty—melancholy ffracc— Brought from a pensive though a happy place.
He spake of love, such love as Spirits feel
Of all that is most beauteous—imaged there
brightest day Earth knows, is all unworthy to survey.
Yet there the Soul shall enter which hath
earned That privilege by virtue.—111—said he—