LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM.
LIKE the lone emigrant who seeks a home
In the wild regions of the far-off west,
And where, as yet, no foot of man hath come,
Rears a rude dwelling for his future rest.
Like him I have sought out a solitude
Where all around me is unsullied yet,
And reared a tenement of words as rude
As the first hut on Indian prairies set.
O'er his poor house ere thrice the seasons tread Their march of storm and sunshine o'er the land, Some lofty pile will rear its haughty head,
And sway the soil with high and proud command.
And round my verse the better, brighter thought
Of beauty and of genius will be placed—
Those gem-like words, with light and music fraught,
By manly or by fairy fingers traced.
Our fate's the same-the gentle and the proud
Will speed their voyage to oblivion's sea,
And I shall soon be lost amid the crowd
That seek a place within thy memory.
GONE to the slumber which may know no waking
Till the loud requiem of the world shall swell;
Gone! where no sound thy still repose is breaking,
In a lone mansion through long years to dwell;
Where the sweet gales that herald bud and blossom
Pour not their music nor their fragrant breath:
A seal is set upon thy budding bosom,
A bond of loneliness—a spell of death!
Yet 'twas but yesterday that all before thee
Shone in the freshness of life's morning hours; Joy's radiant smile was playing briefly o'er thee, And thy light feet impressed but vernal flowers. The restless spirit charmed thy sweet existence, Making all beauteous in youth's pleasant maze, While gladsome hope illumed the onward distance, And lit with sunbeams thy expectant days.
How have the garlands of thy childhood withered,
And hope's false anthem died upon the air!
Death's cloudy tempests o'er thy way have gathered,
And his stern bolts have burst in fury there.
On thy pale forehead sleeps the shade of even,
Youth's braided wreath lies stained in sprinkled dust,
Yet looking upward in its grief to Heaven,
Love should not mourn thee, save in hope and trust.
Go forth, sad fragments of a broken strain,
The last that either bard shall e'er essay !
The hand can ne'er attempt the chords again,
That first awoke them, in a happier day :
Where sweeps the ocean breeze its desert way,
His requiem murmurs o'er the moaning wave;
And he who feebly now prolongs the lay
Shall ne'er the minstrel's hallowed honours crave;
His harp lies buried deep in that untimely grave!
Friend of my youth,* with thee began the love
Of sacred song; the wont, in golden dreams,
'Mid classic realms of splendours past to rove,
O'er haunted steep, and by immortal streams;
Where the blue wave, with sparkling bosom gleams
Round shores, the mind's eternal heritage,
For ever lit by memory's twilight beams;
Where the proud dead, that live in storied page,
Beckon, with awful port, to glory's earlier age.
There would we linger oft, entranc'd, to hear,
O'er battle fields the epic thunders roll;
Or list, where tragic wail upon the ear,
Through Argive palaces shrill echoing, stole;
* The Rev. James W. Eastburn, by whom, in conjunction with Mr. Sands, poem of Yamoyden was written, in separate portions.
There would we mark, uncurbed by all control,
In central heaven, the Theban eagle's flight;
Or hold communion with the musing soul
Of sage or bard, who sought, 'mid pagan night,
In lov'd Athenian groves, for truth's eternal light.
Homeward we turned, to that fair land, but late
Redeemed from the strong spell that bound it fast,
Where mystery, brooding o'er the waters, sate
And kept the key, till three millenniums past;
When, as creation's noblest work was last,
Latest, to man it was vouchsafed, to see
Nature's great wonder, long by clouds o'ercast,
And veiled in sacred awe, that it might be
An empire and a home, most worthy for the free.
And here, forerunners strange and meet were found,
Of that bless'd freedom, only dreamed before ;-
Dark were the morning mists, that lingered round
Their birth and story, as the hue they bore.
"Earth was their mother ;"-or they knew no more,
Or would not that their secret should be told;
For they were grave and silent; and such lore,
To stranger ears, they loved not to unfold,
The long-transmitted tales their sires were taught of old.
Kind nature's commoners, from her they drew
Their needful wants, and learn'd not how to hoard;
And him whom strength and wisdom crowned, they knew,
But with no servile reverence, as their lord.
And on their mountain summits they adored
One great, good Spirit, in his high abode,
And thence their incense and orisons poured
To his pervading presence, that abroad
They felt through all his works,-their Father, King, and God.
And in the mountain mist, the torrent's spray,
The quivering forest, or the glassy flood,
Soft falling showers, or hues of orient day,
They imaged spirits beautiful and good;
But when the tempest roared, with voices rude,
Or fierce, red lightning fired the forest pine,
Or withering heats untimely seared the wood,
The angry forms they saw of powers malign;
These they besought to spare, those blest for aid divine.
As the fresh sense of life, through every vein,
With the pure air they drank, inspiring came,
Comely they grew, patient of toil and pain,
And as the fleet deer's agile was their frame;
Of meaner vices scarce they knew the name;
These simple truths went down from sire to son,—
To reverence age,—the sluggish hunter's shame,
And craven warrior's infamy to shun,-
And still avenge each wrong, to friends or kindred done.
From forest shades they peered, with awful dread,
When, uttering flame and thunder from its side,
The ocean-monster, with broad wings outspread,
Came ploughing gallantly the virgin tide.
Few years have pass'd, and all their forests' pride
From shores and hills has vanished, with the race,
Their tenants erst, from memory who have died,
Like airy shapes, which eld was wont to trace,
In each green thicket's depths, and lone, sequestered place.
And many a gloomy tale, tradition yet
Saves from oblivion, of their struggles vain,
Their prowess and their wrongs, for rhymer meet,
To people scenes, where still their names remain ;
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