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 cultur'd 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 lov'd a face
From portrait's rosy flattering art,
Recoil with more regret of heart,
To find an owlet eye of grey,
Where painting pour'd the sapphire's ray,
* Such romantic works as "The American Far. mer'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.
Then I have felt, indignant felt,
To think the glorious dreams should melt;
Which oft, in boyhood's witching time,
Have wrapt me to this wond'rous 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)
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.
* Norfolk, it must be owned, is an unfavourable specimen of America. The characteristics of Vir ginia in general are not such as cau 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.
A trifling attempt at musicial composition ac companied this Epistle.
To pour the soul in sound along,
And turn its every sigh to song!
I thought of home, the according lays
Respir'd 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,
And all the heart's illusive hoard
Of love renew'd and friends restor❜d!
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!
* The poems, which immediately follow
+ Bermuda.
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
Far from the weak appealing cries
Of him she left so sweetly sleeping.
She hopes, she fears; a light is seen,
And gentler blows the night wind's breath
Yet no-
'tis gone-the storms are keen,
The baby may be chill'd to death;
Perhaps his little eyes are shaded
Dim by death's eternal chill-
And yet, perhaps, they are not faded,
Life and love may light them still.
Thus, when my soul with parting sigh,
Hung on my hand's bewildering touch,
And timid ask'd that speaking eye,
If parting pain'd thee half so much;
I thought, and, oh! forgive the thought
For who, by eyes like thine inspir'd,
Could ere resist the flattering fault
Of fancying what his soul desir'd ?.
Yes-I did think, in CARA's mind,
Though yet to CARA's mind unknown,
I left one infant wish behind,
One feeling, which I call'd my own!
Ob blest! though but in fancy blest,
How did I ask of pity's care,
To shield and strengthen in thy breast,
The nursling I had cradled there.
And, many an hour beguil'd by pleasure,
And many an hour of sorrow numbering,
I ne'er forgot the new-
w-born treasure,
I left within thy bosom slumbering.
Perhaps, indifference has not chill'd it,
Haply, it yet a throb may give—
Yet no-perhaps, a doubt has kill'd it!
Oh, CARA! does the infant live!
ON THE DAWNING OF A NEW YEAR'S DAY.
WHEN midnight came to close the year,
We sigh'd to think it thus should take
The hours it gave us-hours as dear
As sympathy and love could make
Their blessed moments! every sun
Saw us, my love, more closely one!
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