MOONLIGHT ON THE HUDSON. WRITTEN AT WEST POINT. I'm not romantic, but, upon my word, There are some moments when one can't help feeling As if his heart's chords were so strongly stirr'd And even here, upon this settee lying, With many a sleepy traveller near me snoozing, Thoughts warm and wild are through my bosom flying, Like founts when first into the sunshine oozing: For who can look on mountain, sky, and river, Like these, and then be cold and calm as ever? Bright Dian, who, Camilla-like, dost skim yon Tell me where'er thy silver bark be steering, strands; Tell if thou visitest, thou heavenly rover, Doth Achelöus or Araxes, flowing Twin-born from Pindus, but ne'er-meeting brothers Doth Tagus, o'er his golden pavement glowing, Or cradle-freighted Ganges, the reproach of mothers, The storied Rhine, or far-famed Guadalquiver-Match they in beauty my own glorious river? What though no cloister gray nor ivied column Along these cliffs their sombre ruins rear? What though no frowning tower nor temple solemn Of despots tell and superstition hereWhat though that mouldering fort's fast-crumbling walls Did ne'er enclose a baron's banner'd halls Its sinking arches once gave back as proud Call'd forth chivalric host to battle-fray: For here amid these woods did he keep court, Before whose mighty soul the common crowd Of heroes, who alone for fame have fought, Are like the patriarch's sheaves to Heaven's He who his country's eagle taught to soar, And silver torrent o'er the bald rock streaming: But such soft fancies here may breathe around, As make Vaucluse and Clarens hallow'd ground. Where, tell me where, pale watcher of the nightThou that to love so oft has lent its soul, Since the lorn Lesbian languish'd 'neath thy light, Or fiery ROMEO to his JULIET stoleWhere dost thou find a fitter place on earth To nurse young love in hearts like theirs to birth? O, loiter not upon that fairy shore, To watch the lazy barks in distance glide, When sunset brightens on their sails no more, And stern-lights twinkle in the dusky tideLoiter not there, young heart, at that soft hour, What time the bird of night proclaims love's power. Even as I gaze upon my memory's track, Bright as that coil of light along the deep, A scene of early youth comes dream-like back, Where two stand gazing from yon tide-wash'd steep A sanguine stripling, just toward manhood flushing, Fresh from a heart full-volumed as the tide? Each year has whistled to her callow brood! How oft have lovers by yon star's same beam Dream'd here of bliss-and waken'd from their dream! But now, bright Peri of the skies, descending, Thy pearly car hangs o'er yon mountain's crest, And Night, more nearly now each step attending, As if to hide thy envied place of rest, Closes at last thy very couch beside, A matron curtaining a virgin bride. Farewell! Though tears on every leaf are starting: While through the shadowy boughs thy glances quiver, As of the good when heavenward hence departing, THE FOREST CEMETERY. WILD TAWASENTHA! in thy brook-laced glen The Indian archer, from his "still-hunt" lair, Wings the death-shaft which hath that moment found her When Fate scem'd foil'd upon her footsteps there: Wild Tawasentha! on thy cone-strew'd sod, O'er which yon Pine his giant arm is bending, No more the Mohawk marks its dark crown nod Against the sun's broad disk toward night descending, Then crouching down beside the brands that redden But where his calumet by that lone fire, At night beneath these cloister'd boughs was lighted, The Christian orphan will in prayer aspire, And in thy shade the mother's heart will listen There many a maid her lover will deplore. Will totter lonely in life's autumn weather, To ponder where life's spring-time blossoms lie; And where the virgin soil was never dinted By the rude ploughshare since creation's birth, Year after year fresh furrows will be printed Upon the sad cheek of the grieving Earth. Yon sun returning in unwearied stages, Will gild the cenotaph's ascending spire, O'er names on history's yet unwritten pages That unborn crowds will, worshipping, admire ; Names that shall-brighten through my country's story Like meteor hues that fire her autumn woods, Encircling high her onward course of glory Like the bright bow which spans her mountainfloods. Here where the flowers have bloom'd and died for ages Bloom'd all unseen and perish'd all unsungOn youth's green grave, traced out beside the sage's, Will garlands now by votive hearts be flung; And sculptur'd marble and funereal urn, O'er which gray birches to the night air wave, Tawasentha-meaning, in Mohawk, "The place of the many dead"-is the finely-appropriate name of the new Forest Cemetery on the banks of the Hudson, between Albany and Troy. Will whiten through thy glades at every turn, In some green nook that should be only ours; Under old boughs, where moist the livelong sum mer The moss is green and springy to the tread, When thou, my friend, shouldst be an often comer To pierce the thicket, seeking for my bed: For thickets heavy all around should screen it From careless gazer that might wander near; Nor e'en to him who by some chance had seen it, Would I have aught to catch his eye, appear: One lonely stem-a trunk those old boughs lifting, I Should mark the spot; and, haply, new thrift owe To that which upward through its sap was drifting From what lay mouldering round its roots below. The wood-duck there her glossy-throated brood Should unmolested gather to her wings; The schoolboy, awed, as near that mound he stood, Should spare the redstart's nest that o'er it swings, And thrill when there, to hear the cadenced winding Of boatman's horn upon the distant river, There my freed spirit with the dawn's first beaming over Loosed from this world thyself to join the free, Thou too wouldst come to rest beside thy lover In that sweet cell beneath our trysting-tree; Where earliest birds above our narrow dwelling Should pipe their matins as the morning rose, And woodland symphonies majestic swelling, In midnight anthem, hallow our repose. THE BOB-O-LINKUM. Tnou vocal sprite-thou feather'd troubadour! And play in foppish trim the masquing stranger? They say, alike thy song and plumage changes; Here both are gay; and when the buds put forth, And leafy June is shading rock and river, Thou art unmatch'd, blithe warbler of the North, While through the balmy air thy clear notes quiver. Joyous, yet tender-was that gush of song Caught from the brooks, where mid its wild flowers The silent prairie listens all day long, [smiling The only captive to such sweet beguiling; Or didst thou, flitting through the verdurous halls And column'd isles of western groves symphoniLearn from the tuneful woods, rare madrigals, [ous, To make our flowering pastures here harmonious? Caught'st thou thy carol from Otawa maid, [ing, Where, through the liquid fields of wild rice plashBrushing the ears from off the burden'd blade, Her birch canoe o'er some lone lake is flashing? Or did the reeds of some savannah South, Detain thee while thy northern flight pursuing, To place those melodies in thy sweet mouth, The spice-fed winds had taught them in their wooing? Unthrifty prodigal!—is no thought of ill Thy ceaseless roundelay disturbing ever? "T would seem that glorious hymning to prolong, Old Time in hearing thee might fall a-doating And pause to listen to thy rapturous song! THE REMONSTRANCE. You give up the world! why, as well might the sun, When tired of drinking the dew from the flowers, While his rays, like young hopes, stealing off one by one, Die away with the muezzin's last note from the towers, Declare that he never would gladden again, The light of that soul once so brilliant and steady, Like Macedon's madman, you weep for another? O! if sated with this, you would seek worlds untried, And fresh as was ours, when first we began it, Let me know but the sphere where you next will abide, And that instant, for one, I am off for that planet. PRIMEVAL WOODS. YES! even here, not less than in the crowd, For lack of utterance, in abasement bow'd,- Ere long thine every stream shall find a tongue, A century hence, will doubt that there could grow The Anak spearman when his trump alarm'd! RIO BRAVO. A MEXICAN LAMENT.-Air-Roncesvalles. RIO BRAVO Rio Bravo!-saw men ever such a sight Since the field of Roncesvalles seal'd the fate of many a knight! Dark is Palo Alto's story-sad Resaca Palma's rout Ah me! upon those fields so gory how many a gallant life went out. There our best and bravest lances shiver'd 'gainst the Northern steel, Left the valiant hearts that couch'd them 'neath the Northern charger's heel. Rio Bravo! Rio Bravo! brave hearts ne'er mourn'd such a sight, Since the noblest lost their life-blood in the Roncesvalles fight. There ARISTA, best and bravest-there RAGUENA, tried and true, On the fatal field thou lavest, nobly did all men could do; Vainly there those heroes rally, Castile on Mox TEZUMA'S shore, Vainly there shone Aztec valour brightly as it shone of yore. Rio Bravo! Rio Bravo! saw men ever such a sight, Since the dews of Roncesvalles wept for paladin and knight? Heard ye not the wounded coursers shrieking on yon trampled banks, As the Northern wing'd artillery thunder'd on our shatter'd ranks? On they came-those Northern horsemen-on like eagles toward the sun; Follow'd then the Northern bayonet, and the field was lost and won. Rio Bravo! Rio Bravo! minstrel ne'er sung such a fight, Since the lay of Roncesvalles sang the fame of martyr'd knight. Rio Bravo! fatal river! saw ye not, while red with gore, One cavalier all headless quiver, a nameless trunk upon thy shore ? Other champions not less noted sleep beneath thy sullen wave: Sullen water, thou hast floated armies to an ocean grave. Rio Bravo! Rio Bravo! lady ne'er wept such a sight, Since the moon of Roncesvalles kiss'd in death her own loved knight. Weepest thou, lorn Lady INEZ, for thy lover mid the slain? Brave LA VEGA's trenchant sabre cleft his slayer to the brain Brave LA VEGA, who, all lonely, by a host of foes beset, Yielded up his falchion only when his equal there he met. Oh, for ROLAND's horn to rally his paladins by that sad shore! Rio Bravo, Roncesvalles, ye are names link'd ever more. Sullen river! sullen river! vultures drink thy gory wave, But they blur not those loved features, which not Love himself could save. Rio Bravo, thou wilt name not that lone corse upon thy shore, But in prayer sad INEZ names him—names him praying evermore. Rio Rravo! Rio Bravo! lady ne'er mourn'd such a knight, Since the fondest hearts were broken by the Roncesvalles fight. LOVE'S MEMORIES. TO-NIGHT! to-night! what memories to-night All, all were there; to me--to me as bright Years, long years ago. That gulf of years! Oh, God! hadst thou been mine, Would all that's precious have been swallow'd there? Youth's meteor hope, and manhood's high design, Lost, lost, forever lost Lost with the love that with them all would twine, The love that left no harvest but despair Unwon at such a cost. Was it ideal, that wild, wild love I bore thee? Such as thou art to-night-could time restore me No! Thou didst break the coffers of my heart, Filing my soul, and lavishing a part No, no! For me the weakest heart before But not in such as thou! i ROSALIE CLARE. WHO owns not she's peerless, who calls her not fair, Who questions the beauty of ROSALIE CLARE? Let him saddle his courser and spur to the field, And, though harness'd in proof, he must perish or yield; For no gallant can splinter, no charger may dare The lance that is couch'd for young ROSALIE CLARE. When goblets are flowing, and wit at the board Sparkles high, while the blood of the red grape is pour'd, And fond wishes for fair ones around offer'd up THINK OF ME, DEAREST. THINK of me, dearest, when day is breaking Let me in thy thoughts come fresh with the light. Think of me, dearest, when day is sinking In the soft embrace of twilight gray, When the starry eyes of heaven are winking, And the weary flowers their tears are drinking, As they start like gems on the moon-touch'd spray. Let me come warm in thy thoughts at eve, As the glowing track which the sunbeams leave, When they, blushing, tremble along the deep, While stealing away to their place of sleep. Think of me, dearest, when round thee smiling Are eyes that melt while they gaze on thee; When words are winning and looks are wiling, And those words and looks, of others, beguiling Thy fluttering heart from love and me. Let me come true in thy thoughts in that hour; Let my trust and my faith-my devotion--have power, When all that can lure to thy young soul is nearest, To summon each truant thought back to me, dearest. WE PARTED IN SADNESS. WE parted in sadness, but spoke not of parting; We talk'd not of hopes that we both must resign, I saw not her eyes, and but one tear-drop starting, Fell down on her hand as it trembled in mine: Each felt that the past we could never recover, Each felt that the future no hope could restore; She shudder'd at wringing the heart of her lover, I dared not to say I must meet her no more. Long years have gone by, and the spring-time smiles ever As o'er our young loves it first smiled in their birth. Long years have gone by, yet that parting, O! never Can it be forgotten by either on earth. [ven, The note of each wild bird that carols toward heaMust tell her of swift-winged hopes that weremine, And the dew that steals over each blossom at even, Tells me of the tear-drop that wept their decline THE ORIGIN OF MINT JULEPS. And first behold this cordial Julep here, That flames and dances in its crystal bounds, With spirits of balm and fragrant syrups mixed; Not that Nepenthes which the wife of THOME In Egypt gave to Jove-born HELENA, Is of such power to stir up Joy as this, To life so friendly, or so cool to thirst. MILTON-Comus. "Tis said that the gods, on Olympus of old, (And who the bright legend profanes with a doubt?) One night, 'mid their revels, by BACCHUS were told That his last butt of nectar had somehow run out! But, determined to send round the goblet once more, They sued to the fairer immortals for aid [o'er, In composing a draught, which, till drinking were Should cast every wine ever drank in the shade. Grave CERES herself blithely yielded her corn, And the spirit that lives in each amber hued grain, And which first had its birth from the dews of the morn, Was taught to steal out in bright dew-drops again. POMONA, whose choicest of fruits on the board Were scatter'd profusely in every one's reach, When called on a tribute to cull from the hoard, Express'd the mild juice of the delicate peach. The liquids were mingled, while VENUS looked on, With glances so fraught with sweet magical power, That the honey of Hybla, e'en when they were gone, Has never been missed in the draught from that hour. FLORA then, from her bosom of fragrancy, shook, And with roseate fingers press'd down in the bowl, All dripping and fresh as it came from the brook, The herb whose aroma should flavour the whole. The draught was delicious, each god did exclaim, Though something yet wanting they all did beBut juleps the drink of immortals became, [wail; When JOVE himself added a handful of hail. |