Vain hope, away! The widow ne'er
Her hero's dying wish shall hear!
The zephyr bears no passing sigh,
No straggling Chieftain meets the eye--
Sound is his sleep by Raisin's wave,
Or Erie's waters are his grave.
O! send, sweet moon, one ray of light,
Across the dusky brow of night,
That I may know each warrior's form,
Who sunk beneath the battle storm.
Gradual, the heavy clouds give way-
The moon beams on the waters play;
See, on the brink a soldier lies!
Pale is his visage, dim his eyes,
And, like a stranded vessel's sail,
His red locks wanton on the gale :
It is the gay and gallant MEAD-
In peace, mild as the setting beam
That guides the tranquil summer stream;
In war, the fiery battle steed.
The foe no more shall dread his arm,
His mirth no more the ear shall charm;
But on his low and silent grave,
The laurel fresh and green shall wave.
But who is he, so pale and low,
Stretch'd on his bloody bier of snow,
Beside the water's silent flow?
The fierce fire of his eye is dead,
The ruddy glow his cheek has fled;
Yes fair in death his corpse appears,
Smooth is his brow and few his years.
For thee, sweet youth! the sigh shall start
In thy fond mother's anguish'd heart;
For thee, some virgin's cheek shall feel
At midnight hour, the tear-drops steal;
And playmates of thy childhood's hour,
Pour o'er thy grave grief's warmest show'r.
Could modest merit ever save
grave,
Its dear possessor from the
Thy corpse, MON TGOMERY, had ne'er lain
Upon this wild unhallow'd plain!
But what were modest merit here ?
Or what were virtue's pleading tear?
The hand that laid that hero low,
The eye that saw his life-blood flow,
Could gaze, unmov'd, on scenes of woe.
Then sleep, sweet youth, tho' far away
From home and friends, thy lifeless clay,
Yet oft on fancy's pinions born,
Friendship shall seek thy lowly urn;
There shall the zephyr softly blow,
There shall the billows gently flow;
There shall the wild flow'r love to bloom,
And shed its fragrance on thy tomb.
Close by his side, young M'llvain
Lies stretch'd upon the bloody plain!
Upon his visage, smooth and mild,
Death calmly sat and sweetly smil'd;
Yet seem'd his eye of tender blue,
Moisten'd with pity's pearly dew;
'Tis thus the infant sinks to rest,
Serenely on its mother's breast:
Yes, pity was his better part,
Pity and friendship form'd his heart,
Nor oft was heart so good and kind,
United with such noble mind.
Here, venturous muse, thy flight restrain;
No farther go-the task is vain
Here GRAVES and ALLEN meet the eye,
And SIMPSON's giant form is nigh!
And EDMONSTON, a warrior old,
And HART, the boldest of the bold,
These and their brave compatriot band,
Ask the sedate Historian's hand-
Mine only strews the fading flow'rs
Which mem'ry culls from friendship's bow're:
His shall entwine immortal bays,
Which brighter glow thro' future days.
It is for man to perform great actions→→→ 'Tis for woman to inspire them."
OH! cold is the ice-drop that clings to the willow,
When winter has sprinkled his hoar-locks with snow; And chill is the sigh of Ontario's billow
That bursts from his wave-beaten caverns below; But colder's the eye where no kindness sits beaming To him who unvalued and friendless remains,
And the heart-frozen sigh where no warm wish is teeming, More chill than the lake-tempest breathes o'er the plains.
When the bark hutted savage alone by his fountain,
Sits sadly at night on the leaf-covered clod,
And watches the arctic-light stream o'er the mountain.
Whose top in the chase he so often has trod:
Oh solitude blest! where no footstep approaches
Of wonder or mem'ry the spell to dethrone,
To that on which man every moment encroaches
When the heart tho' surrounded is yet more alone.
Say, lives there an IDA, thus brightly revealing
A spirit so gentle-a bosom so pure,
And a heart ever faithful to nature and feeling,
That dares for her lover one sorrow endure?
Oh! point to her dwelling;-in love's warm devotion,
An OSMYN in haste to her feet should be borne,
That by her rous'd to greatness, each noble emotion
Might burst from the torpor-cold chains it has worn.
A Sand Hill Scene, at the head of Congaree Creek.
O FOR the harp that wildly rung
Scotland's fairy vales among;
O for the hand that swept the lyre,
And woke its notes with ardent fire,
Bade Rokeby's halls before us rise
Array'd in fancy's gorgeous dyes :
O for the touching strain,
That gave to Bernard's darksome towers-
Wild Throsgil's shade-Matilda's bowers-
The Tee's stream, and Wilfred's love,
A charm the powers of time above-
A glorious, an immortal name.
Then Cong❜ree's limpid flow,
And the rude scenes that round it spread,
Gloomy as mansions of the dead,
No common fame should know.
Sweet briar all around its banks,
And lady fern, in clustered ranks,
In wild profusion grow:
The silver-leaf and trumpet weed,
The waterlily, rush and reed,
Wave in its gentle flow:
While thick'ning groves of evergreen,
The fragrant bay, and laurel sheen,
And Juniper, that towers between,
Deeply shade the limpid stream,
And form a cool retreat,
Where naiads may pursue
In airy whirls, recede, advance,
Secure from all intrusive glance,
Around their mystic seat.
Beneath the close embow'ring shade,
By their entangling branches made,
In the translucent wave,
The fairest sylvan goddess may,
Secluded from the beams of day,
Her polished members lave.
The chaste Diana need nct fear
Th' intrusion of an Actæon here;
Beneath this verdant canopy,
Her spotless charms-her image pure-
Were as protected, as secure,
As warrior in his panoply.
But soon this wild on either hand
Changes its features gay and bland:
Around it spreads a rueful scene,
Of barren hill and pine tree green:
Majestic pines, whose rugged forms
Have stood the brunt of winter storms;
Whose branches proudly wave on high,
And brave each blast that thunders by;
Whose rugged heads they still uprear,
Despite the rage of hundred years,
And 'scape unscathed the flashing levin,
And every thunderbolt of heaven:
Hills barren, dreary, bare and wild,
Where nature bland has never smiled;
Where in her sternest-sarliest mood,
She frowns o'er dingle, hill and wood:
They're steep and dingy, bleak and bare;
The wild deer finds no covert there:
They seem as if apart they're riven,
By some convulsion wildly driven:
No birds are there, that sweetly sing,
But wasps and hornets whet their sting,
And drowsy bats in clusters cling;
Incautious footsteps then will wake
The vengeful anger of the snake;
While with the dismal hoot of owl
Mingles the grim wolf's nightly howl.
One tender flow'ret yet is here,
This barren wilderness to cheer;
Doomed, like some beauteous cloister'd maid,
Unseen-unknown, to bloom and fade:
Her charms unseen-her worth unknown; Unfelt the genial influence
Of beauty, virtue, innocence
Except by monks and nuns alone.
"Tis cold and tender, pure and pale,
Like beauty's cheek at sorrow's tale:*
So pure, so tender, so serene,
It suits but ill so rude a scene.
Amid the objects sad and drear,
That spreads around it far and near,
Its tender beauties glow,
Like fallen hope amid the ill,
Destined this mortal world to fill
With misery and woe.
But soon the winter's howling blast
And blighting storm will gather fast,
And round the waste its leaves will cast;
Its beauties gone-its season past-
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