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There floundering deep, the lost spirits weep
In the voiceless tomb, till the final doom,
I shall sleep with the dead, in their last cold bed,
Till the Power to save, shall say to the
ANNETTE DE L'ARBRE.
The following lines were written beneath an engraving of Annette De L'Arbre.
There she is the poor maiden-the hapless Annette!
Annette was a beauty surpassingly fair;
She loved-and her lover was gone to the war,
"Twas a talisman dear, which he treasur❜d in fight
And when he laid down on the cold ground at night, 'Twas pressed to his heart with a throb of delight And a prayer to behold her again.
Time pass'd-and Eugene to the village return'd,
With feelings unalter'd, his bosom still burn'd,
Ah, vain of her beauty-pursued as a belle,
Though with softest affection her bosom did swell;
Despairing and madden'd, he rushed from her sight,
A ship under weigh, furnish'd wings for his flight;
The first news of her loss, which the fair one obtain❜d,
Was a letter in which, wretched girl! was contain'd That pledge she had given, her heart was enchain'dThat braid of her beautiful hair.
Wild, frantic, undone,-disregarding disguise,
They bore her from thence, and from that fatal day
She turn'd from her suitors, disgusted, away
From those that were happy, and those that were gay, And seem'd to all hope to be dead.
There was one--and but one-whom she anxiously sought:
"Twas the mother of absent Eugene;
On her, she, alas! had calamity brought
She only, seem'd now to engross every thought-
At length to that mother, intelligence came,
He confess'd himself selfish, acknowledged with shame,
What joy sprung up in the heart of Annette!
The months roll'd away-and the time was at hand-
Dark tempests had swept o'er the sea and the land,
Dismasted and shatter'd she slowly advanced,
Vain-vain was the hope!-the poor maiden they told,
Had been washed by a wave from the deck.
She fell to the earth with a shriek of despair;
By friendship and tenderness shown.
But at last, from the couch of disease, she withdrew In a troubled-bewildering maze;
Of the past she knew nothing, or seemingly knew, Except that she prayed when the stormy winds blew, And loved on the waters to gaze.
And waving her kerchief, she seem'd to expect
The tears that were coursing each other uncheck'd,
At times she would deck herself out as a bride,
Her cheek with the maidenly blush would be dyed,
Meanwhile to the village, poor Eugene came back,
But how shall he meet his dear injur’d Annette ?
How know that his love is unchanged for her yet?
So 'twas-and the day of the bridal came round,
"He's coming," they cried, and she rose at the sound,
Peace entered her soul and her reason return'd,
And she seem'd through the past to have dream'd. Then let not a lesson thus bitterly learned,
Ye young and unthinking! be thoughtlessly spurn'd,
Remember this tale of Annette and Eugene-
Those exquisite strings may be sundered I ween,
Is it not Colinet, I lonesome see,
Leaning with folded arms against the tree?
Dan Lonesome was a wight of gentle blood
It had not "crept through scoundrels since the flood,"
But if they could-to do it were an empty thing.
His home, I wot, it nothing boots to tell,
Save that 'twas somewhere in that Old Domain, Which once wished monarchy, 'tis said, so well, She honor'd Charles, and loath'd base Cromwell's reign;
Right gladly had she rear'd Charles' throne again, And did resolve, if that might not be won,
T'invite him hither, cross th' Atlantic main, To hold for us, the sceptre and the crownAh! well-a-day, that deed !—what mischief it had done!
Certes, the times are wondrous changed, when we
Sly Cromwell ceased his cloven foot to hide;
The play was still the same-they had but turn'd the page.