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And yet, fuir bow, no fabling dreams.
Have told why first thy robe of beams
When o'er the green undeluged earth
How came the world's gray fathers forth
And when its yellow lustre smiled
O'er mountains yet untrod, Each mother held aloft her child
To bless the bow of God.
Methinks, thy jubilee to keep,
The first-made anthem rang
And the first poet sang.
Nor ever shall the Muse's eye
Unraptured greet thy beum: Theme of primeval prophecy,
Be still the poet's theme!
The earth to thee her incense yields,
When glittering in the freshen'd fields
How glorious is thy girdle cast
Or mirror'd in the ocean vast,
As fresh in yon horizon dark.
As when the eagle from the ark
For, faithful to its sacred page,
Nor lets the type grow pale with age
THE LAST MAN.
All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom,
The Sun himself must die, Beforo this mortal shall assume
Adown the gulf of Time!
As Adam saw her prime!
The Sun's eye had a sickly glare.
The Earth with age was wan. The skeletons of nations were
Around that lonely man!
Some had expired in fight,— the brands Still rusted in their bony hands;
In plague and famine some! Earth's cities had no sound nor tread; And ships were drifting with the dead
To shores where all was dumb!
Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood,
With dauntless words and high. That shook the sere leaves from the wood
As if a storm pass'd by,
'Tis Mercy bids thee go.
That shall no longer flow.
What though beneath thee man put forth
His pomp, his pride, his skill;
The vassals of his will;—
For all those trophied arts
Entailed on human hearts.
Go, let oblivion's curtain full
Upon the stage of men,
Life's tragedy again.
Of pain anew to writhe;
Like grass beneath the scythe.
Even I am weary in yon skies
To watch thy fading fire; Test of all stintless agonies.
Behold not me expire. My lips that speak thy dirge of death Their rounded gasp and girgling breath
To see thou shalt not boast. The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall. The majesty of Darkness shall
Receive my parting ghost!
This spirit shall return to Him
That gave its heavenly spark; Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim
When thou thyself art dark! No! it shall live again, and shine In bliss unknown to beams of thine.
By Him rccall'd to breath. Who captive led captivity, Who robb'd the grave of Victory,—
And took the sting from Heath!
Go, Sun, while Mercy holds me up
On Nature'* awful waste
Of grief that man shall tnste—
On Earth's sepulchral clod, The darkening Universe defy To quench his Immortality,
Or shake his trust in God!
TO THE EVENING-STAB.
Star that bringest home the bee,
That sendst it from above,
Arc sweet as hers we love.
Come to the luxuriant skies,
And songs, when toil is done,
Curls yellow in the sun.
Star of love's soft interviews,
Of thrilling vows thou art,
By absence from the heart.
Men of England! who inherit
Bights that cost your sires their blood! Men whose nndegenerate spirit
Has been proved on land and flood:—
By the foes ye 've fought uncounted,
Trophies captured—breaches mounted,
Yet, remember England gathers
Hence but fruitless wreaths of fame,
If the patriotism of your fathers
What are monuments pf bravery,
What avail in lands of slavery,
Pageants!— Let the world revere us
And the breasts of civic heroes
Yours are Hampden's, Hussel's glory, Sydney's matchless shade is yonrs,
Martyrs in heroic story.
Worth a hundred Aginconrts!
We 're the sons of sires that baffled
They defied the field and scaffold
'Tis not the loss of love's assurance,
But 'tis the too, too long endurance
The fondest thoughts two hearts can cherish,
Are fruits on desert isles that perish,
What though, untouch'd by jealous madness,
Th' undoubting heart, that breaks with sadness, Is but more slowly doomed to break.
Absence! is not the soul torn by it
From more than light, or life, or breath?
'Tis Lethe's gloom, but not its quiet,
The pain without the peace of death!
To whom nor relative nor blood remain;
Ao.' not a kindred drop that rum in human
• •». "/'"*■ [P- Ml.
In the spring of 1774, a robber; and murder were committed on an inhabitant of the frontiers of Virginia, by two Indiana of the Shawanee tribe. The neighbouring whiten, according to their custom, undertook to punish this outrage in a summary manner. Colonel Cresap, a man infamoua Tor the many murders he had committed on those much injured people, collected a party, and proceeded down the Kanaway in quest of vengeance; unfortunately, a canoe with women and children, with one mau only, was seen coming from the opposite shore, unarmed and unsuspecting an attack from the whites. Cresap and his party concealed themselves on the bank of the river, and the moment the canoe reached the shore, singled out their objects, and at one lire killed every person in it. This happened to be the family of Logan who had long been distinguished as a friend to the whites. This unworthy return" provoked his vengeance; he accordingly signalized himself in the war which ensued. In the autumn of the same year a decisive battle was fought at the month or the great Kanaway, in which the collected forces of the Shawanees, Mingoes, and Delawarea, were defeated by a detachment of the Virginian militia. The Indians sued for peace. Logan, however, disdained to be seen among the suppliants; but lest the sincerity of a treaty should be disturbed from which so distinguished a chief abstracted
himself, he sent, by a messenger, the following speech to be delivered to Lord Donmore.
"I appeal to any white man, if ever he entered Logan's cabin hungry, and he gave him not to eat; if ever he came cold and naked, and he clothed him not. During the course of the last long aud bloody war Logan remained idle in hi* cabin, an advocate for peace. Such was my love for the whites, that my countrymen pointed as they passed, and said, Logan is the friend of white men. 1 have even thought to have lived with you, but for the injuries of one man. Colonel Cresap the last spring, in cold blood, murdered all the relations of Logan, even my women and children.
"There runs not a drop of my blood in the veins of any living creature.—This called on me for revenge—I have fought for it.—I have killed many. — 1 have fully glutted my vengeance. — For my country, I rejoice at the beams of peace—but do not harbour a thought that mine is the joy of fear. -—Logan never felt fear.—He will not turn on his heel to save his life.—Who is there to mourn for Logan ? not one !"—Jefferson's Notes on Virginia.
Yet why, though fallen her brother's kerne [p. 434. Kerne, Irish foot - soldiers. In this sense the word is used by Shakespeare. Gainsford, in his Glory's of England, says: "They (the Irish) are desperate in revenge, and their kerne think no man dead until hi* head be off."
The ladyt at her skirling door [p. 435.
Shieling, a rude cabin or hut.
The morat in a golden cup [p. 435.
Moral, a drink made of the juice of mulberry mixed with honey.
To speak the malison of heaven. [p. 436.
If the wrath which 1 have ascribed to the heroine of this little piece should seem to exhibit her character as too unnaturally stript of patriotic aud domestic affections, 1 must beg leave to plead the authority of Corneille in the representation of a similar passion. 1 allude to the denunciation of Camilla, in the tragedy of Horace. When Horace, accompanied by a soldier, bearing the three swords of the Curiatii, meets his sister, and invites her to congratulate him on his victory, she expresses only her grief, which he attributes at first only to her feelings for the loss of her two brothers; but when she bursts forth into reproaches against him as the murderer of her lover, the last of the Curiatii, he exclaims:
O Ciel! qui vit jamais unc pareille rage?
Rome, 1'unique objet de mon ressentiment,
poudre; Voir le dernier Rnmain a sou dernier soupir, Mni seulc en etre cause, et mourir de plaisir •
And go to Atkunree, 7 cried— [p. 436.
Athunree, the battle foughtin 1315, which decided the fate of Ireland. In the reign of Edward the Second, the Irish presented to Pope John the Twenty-Second a memorial of their suffering* under the English, of which the language exhibits all the strength of despair.—"Ever since the English (say they) first appeared upon our coasts, they entered our territories under a certain specious pretence of charity, and external hypocritical show of religion, endeavouring at the same time, by every artifice malice could suggest, to extirpate us root and branch, and without any other right than that of the strougest: they have so far succeeded by base fraudnleace and cunning, that they have forced us to quit oor fair and ample habitations and inheritance*, aid to take refuge like wild beasts in the mountains, the woods, and the morasses of the country. Sor even can the caverns and dens protect us against their insatiable a\arice. They pursue us even into these frightful abodes: endeavouring to dispossess us of the wild uncultivated rocks, and arrogate to themselves the Property Of Every Pi.Me on which we cau stamp the Ggure of our feet."
The greatest effort ever made by the ancient Irish to regain their native independence, vu made at the lime when they called over the brother of Robert Bruce from Scotland. William de Bourgo, brother to the Earl of [Hater, and Richard de Hermiugham, were sent against the main-body of the native insurgents, who were headed, rather than commanded, by Felim O'Connor—The important battle, which decided (he subjection of Ireland, took place on the 10th of Angust, 1315. It waa the bloodiest that ever was fought between the two nations, and continued throughout the whole day, from the rising to the setting sun. The Irish fought with inferior discipline, but with great enthusiasm. They lost ten thousand men, among whom were twenty-nine chiefs of Connaught.— Tradition states that after this terrible day. the O'Connor family, like the Fabian, were so nearly exterminated, that throughout all Connaught not one of the name remained, except Felim a brother, who was capable of bearing arms.
MISS L. E. LANDON.
Poetry needs no Preface: if it do not speak Tor itself, no comment can render it explicit. 1 have only, therefore, to state that The ImprovUatriee is an attempt to illustrate that species ol inspiration common in Italy, where the mind is warmed from earliest childhood by all thai is beautiful in Nature and glorious in Art. The character depicted is entirely Italian,—a young female with all the loveliness, vivid feeling, and genius of her own impassioned land. She is supposed to relate her own history; with which are intermixed the tales and episodes which various circumstances call forth.
L. E. L.
It lies not in our power to love or hate,
I Am a daughter of that land,
Where the poet's lip and the painter's hand
Arc moat divine,—where the earth and sky
Are picture hoth and poetry—
I am of Florence. 'Mid the chill
Of hope and feeling, oh! I still
Am proud to think to where I owe
My birth, though but the dawn of woe!
My childhood passed 'mid radiant things, Glorious as Hope's imaginings; Statues but known from shapes of the earth, By being too lovely for mortal birth; Paintings whose colours of life were caught From the fairy tints in the rainbow wrouglit; Music whose sighs had a spell like those That float on the sea at the evening's close; Language so silvery, that every word Was like the lute's awakening chord; Skies half sunshine, and half starlight; J lowers whose lives were a breath of delight; waves whose green pomp knew no withering; Fountains bright as the skies of our spring; And songs whose wild and passionate line Suited a soul of romance like mine.
My power was but a woman's power; ■et, in that great and glorious dower
Which Genius gives, I had my part:
Oh, yet my pulse throbs to recall, When first upon the gallery's wall Picture of mine was placed, to share Wonder and prnise from ench one there! Sad were my shades; mcthinks they had Almost a tone of prophecy— I ever had, from earliest youth, A feeling what my fate would be.
My first was of a gorgeous hall, Lighted up for festival; Braided tresses, nnd cheeks of bloom, Diamond-agran", and foam-white plume; Censers of roses, vases of light, Like what the moon sheds on a summer-night. Youths and maidens with linked hands. Joined in the graceful sarabands, Smiled on the canvass; but apart Was one who leant in silent mood, As revelry to his sick heart Were worse than veriest solitude. Pale, dark-eyed, beautiful, and young, Such as he had shone o'er my slumbers, When I had only slept to dream Over again his magic numbers.
Divinest Petrarch! he whose lyre, Like morning-light, hair dew, half fire, To Laura and to love was vowed— He looked on one, who with the crowd Mingled, but mixed not; on whose cheek There was a blush, as if she knew Whose look was fixed on hers. Her eye, Of a spring-sky's delicious blue, Had not the language of that bloom. But mingling tears, nnd light, and gloom, Was raised abstractedly to Heaven:— No sign was to her lover given.
I painted her with goUlen tresses.
I ever thought that poet's fate Utterly lone and desolate. It is the spirit's bitterest pain To love, to he beloved again; And yet between a gulf which ever The hearts that burn to meet must sever. And he was vowed to one sweet star, Bright yet to him, but bright afar.
O'er some Love's shadow may hut pass As passes the breath-stain o'er glass; And pleasures, cares and pride combined, Fill up the blank Love leaves behind. But there are some whose love is high, Entire, and sole idolatry; Who, turning from a heartless world, Ask some dear thing, which may renew Affection's severed links, and be As true as they themselves are true. But Love's bright fount is never pure; And all his pilgrims must endure All passion's mighty suffering Ere they may reach the blessed spring. And some who waste their lives to find A prize which they may never win: Like those who search for hem's groves, Which found, they may not enter in. W"here is the sorrow but appears In Love's long catalogue of tears? And some there arc who leave the patli In agony and fierce disdain; But bear upon each cankered breast The scar that never heals again.
My next was of a minstrel too, Who proved what woman's hand might do, When, true to the heart-pulse, it woke The harp. Her head was bending down, As if in weariness, and near, But unworn, was a laurel-crown. She was not beautiful, if bloom And smiles form beauty; for, like death, Her brow was ghastly; and her lip Was parched, as fever were its breath. There was a shade upon her dark, Large, floating eyes, as if each spark Of minstrel-ecstasy was fled, Yet leaving them no tears to shed; Fixed in their hopelessness of care. And reckless in their great despair.
She sat beneath a cypress-tree,
Farewell, my lute!—and would that I
Poison has been upon thy sigh,
And fever has breathed in thy words.
Yet wherefore, wherefore should I blame
I should have been the wretch I am.
It was my evil star above,
Not my sweet In tc,that wrought me wrong; It was not song that taught me love,
But it was love that taught me song.
If song be past, and hope undone,
And pulse, and head, and heart, are flame;
It is thy work, thou faithless one!
Sun-god! lute, wreath are vowed to thee!
Long be their light upon my grave— My glorious grave—yon deep blue sea:
I shall sleep calm beneath its wave!
Florence! with what idolatry I've lingered in thy radiant halls, Worshipping, till my dizzy eye Grew dim with gazing on those walls. Where Time had spared each glorious gift By Genius unto Memory left! And when seen by the pale moonlight. More pure, more perfect, though less bright. What dreams of song flashed on my brain. Till each shade seemed to live again; And then the beautiful, the grand, The glorious of my native land. In every flower that threw its veil Aside, when wooed by the spring-gale; In every vineyard, where the sun. His task of summer-ripening done. Shone on their clusters, and a song Came lightly from the peasant-throng : — In the dim loveliness of night, In fountains with their diamond-light.