Which their fancies doth so strike,
They borrow language of dislike;
And, instead of Dearest Miss,
Jewel, Honey, Sweetheart, Bliss,
And those forms of old admiring,
Call her Cockatrice and Siren,
Basilisk, and all that's evil,
Witch, Hyena, Mermaid, Devil,
Ethiop, Wench, and Blackamoor,
Monkey, Ape, and twenty more;
Friendly Trait'ress, loving Foe,-
Not that she is truly so,

But no other way they know
A contentment to express,
Borders so upon excess,
That they do not rightly wot
Whether it be pain or not.

Or, as men, constrain'd to part With what's nearest to their heart, While their sorrow's at the height, Lose discrimination quite, And their hasty wrath let fall, To appease their frantic gall, On the darling thing whatever, Whence they feel it death to sever, Though it be, as they, perforce, Guiltless of the sad divorce.

For I must (nor let it grieve thee, Friendliest of plants, that I must) leave thee. For thy sake, TOBACCO, I

Would do anything but die,

And but seek to extend my days

Long enough to sing thy praise.
But, as she, who once hath been
A king's consort, is a queen
Ever after, nor will bate
Any tittle of her state,
Though a widow, or divorced,
So I, from thy converse forced,
The old name and style retain,
A right Catherine of Spain;
And a seat, too, 'mongst the joys
Of the blest Tobacco Boys;
Where, though I, by sour physician,
Am debarr'd the full fruition

Of thy favors, I may catch

Some collateral sweets, and snatch
Sidelong odors, that give life

Like glances from a neighbor's wife;
And still live in the by-places
And the suburbs of thy graces;
And in thy borders take delight,
An unconquer'd Canaanite.

TO T. L. H.

A CHILD.

MODEL of thy parent dear, Serious infant worth a fear; In thy unfaltering visage well Picturing forth the son of TELL, When on his forehead, firm and good, Motionless mark, the apple stood;

Guileless traitor, rebel mild,
Convict unconscious, culprit-child!
Gates that close with iron roar
Have been to thee thy nursery-door;
Chains that clink in cheerless cells
Have been thy rattles and thy bells;
Walls contrived for giant sin

Have hemm'd thy faultless weakness in;
Near thy sinless bed black Guilt
Her discordant house hath built,

And fill'd it with her monstrous brood-
Sights, by thee not understood-
Sights of fear, and of distress,

That pass a harmless infant's guess!

But the clouds, that overcast

Thy young morning, may not last.
Soon shall arrive the rescuing hour,
That yields thee up to Nature's power.
Nature, that so late doth greet thee,
Shall in o'erflowing measure meet thee.
She shall recompense with cost
For every lesson thou hast lost.

Then wandering up thy sire's loved hill,'
Thou shalt take thy airy fill

Of health and pastime. Birds shall sing
For thy delight each May morning.
'Mid new-yearn'd lambkins thou shalt play,
Hardly less a lamb than they.
Then thy prison's lengthen'd bound
Shall be the horizon skirting round.
And, while thou fillest thy lap with flowers,
To make amends for wintry hours,
The breeze, the sunshine, and the place,
Shall from thy tender brow efface
Each vestige of untimely care,
That sour restraint had graven there;
And on thy every look impress
A more excelling childishness.

So shall be thy days beguiled,
THORNTON HUNT, my favorite child.

BALLAD.

FROM THE GERMAN.

THE clouds are blackening, the storms threatening,
And ever the forest maketh a moan:
Billows are breaking, the damsel's heart aching,
Thus by herself she singeth alone,

Weeping right plenteously.

"The world is empty, the heart is dead surely,
In this world plainly all seemeth amiss:
To thy breast, holy one, take now thy little one,
I have had earnest of all earth's bliss,
Living right lovingly."

DAVID IN THE CAVE OF ADULLAM.

DAVID and his three captains bold
Kept ambush once within a hold.

1 Hampstead.

It was in Adullam's cave,

Nigh which no water they could have, Nor spring, nor running brook was near

To quench the thirst that parch'd them there.
Then David, king of Israel,

Straight bethought him of a well,
Which stood beside the city gate,

At Bethlehem; where, before his state
Of kingly dignity, he had

Oft drunk his fill, a shepherd lad;
But now his fierce Philistine foe
Encamp'd before it he does know.
Yet ne'er the less, with heat opprest,
Those three bold captains he addrest,
And wish'd that one to him would bring
Some water from his native spring.
His valiant captains instantly
To execute his will did fly.

The mighty Three the ranks broke through
Of armed foes, and water drew
For David, their beloved king,
At his own sweet native spring.
Back through their armed foes they haste,
With the hard-earn'd treasure graced.
But when the good king David found
What they had done, he on the ground
The water pour'd. "Because," said he,
"That it was at the jeopardy

Of your three lives this thing ye did,
That I should drink it, God forbid."

SALOME.

ONCE on a charger there was laid,
And brought before a royal maid,
As price of attitude and grace,
A guiltless head, a holy face.

It was on Herod's natal day,
Who o'er Judea's land held sway.
He married his own brother's wife,
Wicked Herodias. She the life
Of John the Baptist long had sought,
Because he openly had taught
That she a life unlawful led,
Having her husband's brother wed.

This was he, that saintly John,
Who in the wilderness alone
Abiding, did for clothing wear
A garment made of camels' hair;
Honey and locusts were his food,
And he was most severely good.
He preached penitence and tears,
And waking first the sinner's fears,
Prepared a path, made smooth a way,
For his diviner Master's day.

Herod kept in princely state
His birth-day. On his throne he sate,
After the feast, beholding her
Who danced with grace peculiar;
Fair Salome, who did excel

All in that land for dancing well.
The feastful monarch's heart was fired,
And whate'er thing she desired,

Though half his kingdom it should be,
He in his pleasure swore that he
Would give the graceful Salome.
The damsel was Herodias' daughter:

She to the queen hastes, and besought her
To teach her what great gift to name.
Instructed by Herodias, came
The damsel back; to Herod said,
"Give me John the Baptist's head;
And in a charger let it be

Hither straightway brought to me."
Herod her suit would fain deny,
But for his oath's sake must comply.

When painters would by art express
Beauty in unloveliness,

Thee, Herodias' daughter, thee,
They fittest subject take to be.

They give thy form and features grace;
But ever in thy beauteous face
They show a stedfast cruel gaze,
An eye unpitying; and amaze
In all beholders deep they mark,
That thou betray est not one spark
Of feeling for the ruthless deed,
That did thy praiseful dance succeed.
For on the head they make you look,
As if a sullen joy you took,
A cruel triumph, wicked pride,
That for your sport a saint had died.

LINES

SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF TWO FEMALES BY LEONARDO DA VINCI.

THE lady Blanch, regardless of all her lovers' fears, To the Urs'line convent hastens, and long the Abbess hears.

"O Blanch, my child, repent ye of the courtly life ye lead."

Blanch look'd on a rose-bud, and little seem'd to heed. She look'd on the rose-bud, she look'd round, and thought

On all her heart had whisper'd and all the Nun had taught.

"I am worshipp'd by lovers, and brightly shines my fame,

All Christendom resoundeth the noble Blanch's name. Nor shall I quickly wither like the rose-bud from the tree,

My queen-like graces shining when my beauty's gone from me.

But when the sculptured marble is raised o'er my head, And the matchless Blanch lies lifeless among the noble dead,

This saintly lady Abbess hath made me justly fear, It would nothing well avail me that I were worshipp'd here."

LINES

ON THE SAME PICTURE BEING REMOVED, TO MAKE
PLACE FOR A PORTRAIT OF A LADY BY TITIAN.
WHO art thou, fair one, who usurp'st the place
Of Blanch the lady of the matchless grace?

In my poor mind it is most sweet to muse
Upon the days gone by; to act in thought
Past seasons o'er, and be again a child;
To sit in fancy on the turf-clad slope,
Down which the child would roll; to pluck gay flowers,
Make posies in the sun, which the child's hand
(Childhood offended soon, soon reconciled)
Would throw away, and straight take up again,
Then fling them to the winds, and o'er the lawn
Bound with so playful and so light a foot,
That the press'd daisy scarce declined her head.

THE GRANDAME. On the green hill top, Hard by the house of prayer, a modest roof,

And not distinguish'd from its neighbor-barn,
Save by a slender-tapering length of spire,
The Grandame sleeps. A plain stone barely tells
The name and date to the chance passenger.
For lowly born was she, and long had eat,
Well-earn'd, the bread of service:-hers was else
A mounting spirit, one that entertain'd
Scorn of base action, deed dishonorable,
Or aught unseemly. I remember well
Her reverend image: I remember, too,

With what a zeal she served her master's house;
And how the prattling tongue of garrulous age
Delighted to recount the oft-told tale
Or anecdote domestic. Wise she was,
And wondrous skill'd in genealogies,

And could in apt and voluble terms discourse
Of births, of titles, and alliances;
Of marriages, and intermarriages;
Relationship remote, or near of kin;
Of friends offended, family disgraced-
Maiden high-born, but wayward, disobeying
Parental strict injunction, and regardless
of unmix'd blood, and ancestry remote,
Stooping to wed with one of low degree.
But these are not thy praises; and I wrong
Thy honor'd memory, recording chiefly
Things light or trivial. Better 't were to tell,
How with a nobler zeal, and warmer love,
She served her heavenly Master. I have seen
That reverend form bent down with age and pain,
And rankling malady. Yet not for this
Ceased she to praise her Maker, or withdrew
Her trust in Him, her faith, and humble hope-
So meekly had she learn'd to bear her cross-
For she had studied patience in the school

Of Christ, much comfort she had thence derived,
And was a follower of the NAZARENE.

THE SABBATH BELLS.

THE cheerful sabbath bells, wherever heard,
Strike pleasant on the sense, most like the voice
Of one who from the far-off hills proclaims
Tidings of good to Zion: chiefly when
Their piercing tones fall sudden on the ear
Of the contemplant, solitary man,

Where the perpetual flowers of Eden blow;
By crystal streams, and by the living waters,
Along whose margin grows the wondrous tree
Whose leaves shall heal the nations; underneath
Whose holy shade a refuge shall be found
From pain and want, and all the ills that wait
On mortal life, from sin and death for ever.

COMPOSED AT MIDNIGHT.

FROM broken visions of perturbed rest

I wake, and start, and fear to sleep again.
How total a privation of all sounds,
Sights, and familiar objects, man, bird, beast,
Herb, tree, or flower, and prodigal light of heaven!
"T were some relief to catch the drowsy cry
Of the mechanic watchman, or the noise
Of revel, reeling home from midnight cups.
Those are the moanings of the dying man,
Who lies in the upper chamber; restless moans,
And interrupted only by a cough
Consumptive, torturing the wasted lungs.
So in the bitterness of death he lies,
And waits in anguish for the morning's light.
What can that do for him, or what restore?
Short taste, faint sense, affecting notices,
of health, and active life-health not yet slain,
And little images of pleasures past,
Nor the other grace of life, a good name, sold
For sin's black wages. On his tedious bed
He writhes, and turns him from the accusing light,
And finds no comfort in the sun, but says

When night comes, I shall get a little rest."
Some few groans more, death comes, and there an end.
'Tis darkness and conjecture, all beyond;
Weak Nature fears, though Charity must hope,
And Fancy, most licentious on such themes
Where decent reverence well had kept her mute,
Hath o'er-stock'd hell with devils, and brought down,
By her enormous fablings and mad lies,
Discredit on the gospel's serious truths
And salutary fears. The man of parts,
Poet, or prose declaimer, on his couch
Lolling, like one indifferent, fabricates

A heaven of gold, where he, and such as he,

Forth from the walks of men, revolving oft,
And oft again, hard matter, which eludes
And baffles his pursuit-thought-sick and tired
Of controversy, where no end appears,
No clue to his research, the lonely man
Half wishes for society again.
Him, thus engaged, the sabbath bells salute
Sudden! his heart awakes, his ears drink in
The cheering music; his relenting soul
Yearns after all the joys of social life,
And softens with the love of human-kind.

With fine wings garlanded, shall tread the stars
Beneath their feet, heaven's pavement, far removed
From damned spirits, and the torturing cries
Of men, his brethren, fashion'd of the earth,
As he was, nourish'd with the self-same bread,
Belike his kindred or companions once-
Through everlasting ages now divorced,
In chains and savage torments to repent
Short years of folly on earth. Their groans unheard
In heav'n, the saint nor pity feels, nor care,
For those thus sentenced-pity might disturb
The delicate sense and most divine repose
Of spirits angelical. Blessed be God,
The measure of his judgments is not fix'd
By man's erroneous standard. He discerns
No such inordinate difference and vast
Betwixt the sinner and the saint, to doom
Such disproportion'd fates. Compared with him,
No man on earth is holy call'd: they best

411

Stand in his sight approved, who at his feet Their little crowns of virtue cast, and yield To him of his own works the praise, his due.

LIVING WITHOUT GOD IN THE WORLD.

MYSTERY of God! thou brave and beauteous world
Made fair with light and shade and stars and flowers,
Made fearful and august with woods and rocks,
Jagg'd precipice, black mountain, sea in storms,
Sun, over all, that no co-rival owns,

But through heaven's pavement rides, as in despite
Or mockery of the littleness of man!

I see a mighty arm, by man unseen,
Resistless, not to be controll'd, that guides,
In solitude of unshared energies,

All these thy ceaseless miracles, O world!
Arm of the world, I view thee, and I muse
On man, who, trusting in his mortal strength,
Leans on a shadowy staff, a staff of dreams.
We consecrate our total hopes and fears

To idols, flesh and blood, our love (heaven's due),
Our praise and admiration; praise bestowed
By man on man, and acts of worship done
To a kindred nature, certes do reflect
Some portion of the glory and rays oblique
Upon the politic worshipper. So man
Extracts a pride from his humility.
Some braver spirits of the modern stamp
Affect a Godhead nearer: These talk loud
Of mind, and independent intellect,
Of energies omnipotent in man,
And man of his own fate artificer;
Yea, of his own life lord, and of the days

Of his abode on earth, when time shall be

That life immortal shall become an art.

Or death, by chymic practices deceived,
Forego the scent, which for six thousand years
Like a good hound he has follow'd; or at length,
More manners learning, and a decent sense
And reverence of a philosophic world,
Relent, and leave to prey on carcasses.
But these are fancies of a few: the rest,

Atheists, or Deists only in the name,

By word or deed deny a God. They eat
Their daily bread, and draw the breath of heaven
Without or thought or thanks; heaven's roof to them
Is but a painted ceiling hung with lamps,
No more, that lights them to their purposes.
They wander" loose about;" they nothing see,
Themselves except, and creatures like themselves,
Short-lived, short-sighted, impotent to save.
So on their dissolute spirits, soon or late,
Destruction cometh "like an armed man,"
Or like a dream of murder in the night,
Withering their mortal faculties, and breaking
The bones of all their pride.

Was in her cradle-coffin lying;
Extinct, with scarce a show of dying:
So soon to exchange th' imprisoning womb
For darker prison of the tomb!
She did but ope an eye, and put

A clear beam forth-then straight up shut
For the long dark: ne'er more to see
Through glasses of mortality.-
Riddle of Destiny! who can show
What thy short visit meant, or know
What thy errand here below?
Shall we say that Nature, blind,
Check'd her hand, and changed her mind,
Just when she had exactly wrought

A finish'd pattern without fault?
Could she flag, or could she tire?—
Or lack'd she the Promethean fire,
(With her tedious workings sicken'd)
That should thy little limbs have quicken'd!
Limbs so firm, they seem'd to assure
Life of health, and days mature;
Womanhood in miniature!
Limbs so fair, they might supply
(Themselves now but cold imagery)
The sculptor to make Beauty by;-
Or did the stern-eyed Fate descry
That, babe or mother, one must die;
So, in mercy, left the stock

And cut the branch: to save the shock
Of young years widow'd: and the pain
When simple state comes back again
To the lorn man, who, 'reft of wife,
Thenceforward drags a maimed life?
The economy of Heav'n is dark;

And wisest clerks have miss'd the mark,
Why Heaven's buds, like this, should fall
More brief than fly ephemeral,

That has his day; while shrivell'd crones
Stiffen with age to stocks and stones;
And crabbed use the conscience sears
In sinners of a hundred years.
Mother's prattle, mother's kiss,
Baby fond, thou ne'er wilt miss.
Rites, which custom does impose;
Silver bells and baby clothes;
Corals redder than those lips
Which pale Death did late eclipse;
Music framed for infant's glee,

Whistle never tuned for thee;

Though thou want'st not, thou shalt have them.
(Loving hearts were they which gave them),
Let not one be missing: Nurse,
See them laid upon the hearse
Of Infant, slain by doom perverse.—
Why should kings and nobles have
Pictured trophies to their grave;
And we, churls! to thee deny
Thy pretty toys with thee to lie,-
A more harmless vanity?

ON AN INFANT DYING AS SOON AS BORN.

I SAW where in the shroud did lurk

A curious piece of Nature's work,

A floweret crushed in the bud,

A nameless maid, in babyhood,

VERSES FOR AN ALBUM.

FRESH clad from Heaven, in robes of white, A young probationer of light,

Thou wert, my soul, an Album bright,