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Her home is in England-in Italy-Greece,—
Why will she not visit a country like this?
A thought it has struck me-perhaps 'tis a dream-
The ocean is narrowed we know to a stream,*
I'll write her a letter, and ask her to come,
And we'll give her the freedom of this Western Rome.
Oh Poetry! thou nymph divine!
Invok'd so oft in vain!
How ardently I've wished you mine-
I've wrote you many a foolish line,
But still thou let'st me inly pine,
And die at thy disdain.
I've woo'd you in sequester'd vale,
On side of sunny hill;
I've sought you in the moonlight pale,
When summer's sweets perfum❜d the gale—
The soft pursuit did not avail,
For thou wert cruel still.
I've sigh'd for you at midnight dark,
In silence deep-profound,
I've thought I heard you coming-hark!
I said, her form I dimly mark,
She now will bring Promethean spark—
'Twas but a cheating sound.
I've stroll'd along the sounding shore,
Thou lov'st the path sublime;
I've climb'd the cliffs where eagles soar,
And heard the torrents deaf'ning roar,
But found thee not, nor would I'm sure,
Until the end of time,
In flow'ry paths, I've look'd for you,
The beautiful, I've said
Your fancy pleased and off I flew,
Where roses round their fragrance threw, Where earth was bright and skies were blue, But where wert thou, sweet maid?
Why art thou cold? thou hast been kind To men of other climes
The favor'd few, your haunts could find,
You loved great Homer-Milton blind-
To Shakspeare gave the boundless mind,
In old and bygone times.
I've often wondered how you could,
Have such a taste, my belle!
Pope, like interrogation, stood,
And Byron, winning all he wooed,
Would o'er his club-foot darkly brood,
And yet you lov'd them well.
Is't country then ?—this western wild,
Dear nymph! that thou dost shun?
I thought thou lov'dst bold scen❜ry child!
The mountains upon mountains pil'd!
Primeval forests undefiled!
Untrod since time begun.
In Avon didst thou take delight?
Or in the "wand'ring Po ?"-
What strains should then awake at sight,
Of rivers vast, that in their flight
A thousand shores, with waters bright,
Have wash'd?-oh! maiden show.
Yes, yes thou wilt-but not for me,
Shalt thou awake the strain-
But here are our distinguish'd three,
Thy spirit stirs them, Poetry!-
Go bid them sing again.
Oh to my country, Nymph! then come—
Come Poetry! divine:
Here Liberty will let thee roam
O'er all beneath her heavenly dome, Thou could'st not find a lovelier home, Oh come and make it thine.
The Lowlands and the Mountains.
I stood by Calwell's fountain,
A pilgrim at thy shrine
Hygeia! where the mountain,
Throws round a charm divine;
And as I sadly ponder'd,
My thoughts ran thus in rhyme,
To Home, from whence I've wander'd,
My far off sunny clime.
The lowlands or the mountains,
Oh! which should I love best?
Broad rivers or the fountains,
And blue hills of the West?
Those vast and giant ranges,
With vallies dark and deep,
Where Time hath wrought no changes,
Or plains of boundless sweep?
The lofty hills are charming,
And strike th' enraptur'd eye,
And He the heart is warming,
Who flung them on the sky;
What shadows dark go drifting,
Along the mountain side,
And as the clouds are shifting,
How swiftly on they glide.
Those crowning trees! how sapless!
Like skeletons they look,
So hoary and so hapless!
So drear and thunder shook!
Like sentinels they're standing
To guard some "battled tower,"
Some castle wall commanding,
For many a weary hour.
How beautiful the white clouds,
Upon those tops of blue!
At sunset ere the night shrouds,
The gorgeous scene from view,
All glorious are the gildings
Where seeming snows have roll'd,
There Fancy rears her buildings,
Of bright and burnish'd gold.
And oh the lovely flowers,
That deck the mountain side,
How sweet in Sylvan bowers
They bloom in lonely pride!
The brightest there are blushing
'Mid those of virgin snow,
And hark! how streams are rushing.
Into the vales below!
Yet more, yet more, this fountain,
This life-inspiring spring,
Lapp'd by the blue-robed mountain,
A holier charm doth bring-
For, here are pilgrims wending,
Borne down by sorrow's load,
And silent prayers ascending
Like frankincense to God.
But what are all, old Manor !
Compared to thee, my Home!
The silver sail and banner,
The billows lash'd to foam!
White beach and winding river!
The Bay! the boundless Sea!-
Ah! yes, the great Lawgiver,
Hath bound my soul to ye.
To ye, whom mem'ry mingleth,
With boyhood's joyous plays,
Oh! how my blood it tingleth,
To dream of those young days!
When o'er your fields I wander'd,
Or watch'd that banner wave,
Or on that white beach ponder'd,
Or did those billows brave.
The First Time-The Last Time.
The first time! ah what memories,
Are mingled with that time!
What scenes-old scenes before me rise,
To prompt the mournful rhyme.
The first time, when a careless boy,
I sail'd my soaring kite,
How boundless was my childish joy,
To see its cloudward flight!
The first time that I sallied forth,
To hunt with shoulder'd gun,
What Conqu❜ror issuing from the north,
Felt prouder? Goth or Hun?-
The first time that my hand shed blood,
As my dead bird I scann'd,
Transfix'd with horror, how I stood,
With blood upon my hand!
Good God! if thus in boyhood,
The blood with horror ran,
How must it curdle, when the blood
We shed, belongs to man?
The first time that I loved!-her look,
The light of that dark eye,
The madd'ning draughts of love I took
Will be with me for aye.
And then the last time! oh the last!
What bitter words are those!
They conjure up the distant past,
And wake up buried woes.
The last time that I saw her-death
Had closed that lustrous eye;
My lips had kissed her latest breath-
I frantic, turned to fly.
Oh! while I touch these tender chords,
What heart remains unwrung?
The first time and the last are words,
On many a human tongue.