That trembling from her bosom rose,
Divided 'twixt her Saviour's woes
And some warm image lingering there,
Which, half-repulsed by midnight prayer,
Still, like an outcast child, will creep
Where sweetly it was wont to sleep,
And mingle its unhallowed sigh
With cloister-prayer and rosary;
Then tell the pale, deluded one
Her vows are breathed to God alone;
Those vows, which tremulously rise,
Love's last, love's sweetest sacrifice..
(Written in her fifteenth year.)
Must every shore ring boldly to the voice.
Of sweet poetic harmony, save this?
Rouse thee, America! for shame! for shame!
Gather thy infant bands, and rise to join
Thy glimmering taper to the holy flame:-
Such honour, if no other, may be thine.
Shall Gallia's children sing beneath the yoke?
Shall Ireland's harpstrings thrill, though all unstrung? And must America, her bondage broke,
Oppression's blood-stains from her garment wrung, Must she be silent?—who may then rejoice? If she be tuneless, Harmony, farewell! Oh! shame, America! wild freedom's voice
Echoes, "shame on thee," from her wild-wood dell. Shall conquered Greece still sing her glories past? Shall humbled Italy in ruins smile?
(Written in her fifteenth year.,
Headache! thou bane to Pleasure's fairy spell, Thou fiend, thou foe to joy, I know thee well! Beneath thy lash I've writhed for many an hour,I hate thee, for I've known, and dread thy power.
Even the heathen gods were made to feel
The aching torments which thy hand can deal;
And Jove, the ideal king of heaven and earth,
Owned thy dread power, which called stern Wisdom
forth.
Would'st thou thus ever bless each aching head,
And bid Minerva make the brain her bed,
Blessings might then be taught to rise from woe,
And Wisdom spring from every throbbing brow.
But always the reverse to me, unkind,
Folly for ever dogs thee close behind;
And from this burning brow, her cap and bell,
For ever jingle Wisdom's funeral knell.
(Written in her fifteenth year.)
Thou brightly-glittering star of even,
Thou gem upon the brow of Heaven
Oh! were this fluttering spirit free,
How quick 't would spread its wings to thee.
How calmly, brightly dost thou shine, Like the pure lamp in Virtue's shrine! Sure the fair world which thou may'st boast Was never ransomed, never lost.
There, beings pure as Heaven's own air,
Their hopes, their joys together share;
While hovering angels touch the string,
And seraphs spread the sheltering wing.
There cloudless days and brilliant nights,
Illumed by Heaven's refulgent lights;
There seasons, years, unnoticed roll,
And unregretted by the soul.
Thou little sparkling star of even,
Thou gem upon an azure Heaven,
How swiftly will I soar to thee,
When this imprisoned soul is free!
SONG OF VICTORY,
FOR THE DEATH OF GOLIATH,
(Written in her fifteenth year.)
Strike with joy the wild harp's string,
God, O Israel, is your King!
We have slain our deadliest foe,
David's arm hath laid him low.
Saul hath oft his thousands slain,
His trophies have bedecked the plain;
But David's tens of thousands lie
In slaughtered millions, mounted high.
Sound the trumpet-strike the string,
Loud let the song of victory ring;
Wreathe with glory David's brow,
He hath laid Goliath low.
Mark him on yon crimson plain,
He is conquered — he is slain;
He who lately rose so high,
Scoffed at man, and braved the sky.
Strike with joy the wild harp's string,
God, O Israel, is your king!
We have slain our deadliest foe,
David's arm 'hath laid him low.
THE INDIAN CHIEF AND CONCONAY.
(Written in her fifteenth year.)
The Indian Chieftain is far away,
Through the forest his footsteps fly,
But his heart is behind him with Conconay,
He thinks of his love in the bloody fray,
When the storm of war is high.
But little he thinks of the bloody foe,
Who is bearing that love away;
And little he thinks of her bosom's woe,
And little he thinks of the burning brow
Of his lovely Conconay.
They tore her away from her friends, from her home, They tore her away from her Chief.
Through the wild-wood, when weary, they forced her to roam,
Or to dash the light oar in the river's white foam,
While her bosom o'erflowed with grief.
But there came a foot, 't was swift, 't was light,
'T was the brother of him she loved;
His heart was kind, and his eye was bright;
He paused not by day, and he slept not by night;
While through the wild forest he roved.
'T was Lightfoot, the generous, 't was Lightfoot the young,
And he loved the sweet Conconay;
But his bosom to honour and virtue was strung, And the chords of his heart should to breaking be wrung,
Ere love should gain o'er him the sway.
Far, far from her stern foes he bore her away,
And sought his own forest once more;
But sad was the heart of the young Conconay,
Her bosom recoiled when she strove to be gay,
And was even more drear than before.
'Tis evening, and weary, and faint, and weak
Is the beautiful Conconay;
She could wander no farther, she strove to speak,
But lifeless she sunk upon Lightfoot's neck,
And seemed breathing her soul away.
The young warrior raised his eyes to Heaven,
He turned them towards the west;
For one moment a ray of light was given,
Like lightning, which through the cloud hath riven
But to strike at the fated breast.
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