And yet not rich in high-souled memories only, Is every moon-touched headland round me gleaming, Each cavernous glen and leafy valley lonely, And silver torrent o'er the bald rock streaming: Where, tell me where, pale watcher of the night— But now, bright Peri of the skies, descending Thy pearly car hangs o'er yon mountain's crest, And Night, more nearly now each step attending, As if to hide thy envied place of rest, Closes at last thy very couch beside, A matron curtaining a virgin bride. Farewell! Though tears on every leaf are starting, While through the shadowy boughs thy glances quiver, As of the good when heavenward hence departing, Shines thy last smile upon the placid river. So-could I fling o'er glory's tide one rayWould I too steal from this dark world away. ANACREONTIC. BY A. H. BOGART. Ob: 1826, at. 22. THE flying joy through life we seek Round with the ringing glass once more! Then crown it ere we part. Ye are my friends, my chosen ones Whose blood would flow with fervour true For me-and free as this wine runs Would mine, by Heaven! for you. Yet, mark me! When a few short years Though now, perhaps, with proud disdain, Fame's luring voice, and woman's wile, No-pour the wine again! ADDRESS TO BLACK HAWK. BY EDWARD SANFORD. THERE'S beauty on thy brow, old chief! the high Speaks of a heart that years have not made cold; Chief of a hundred warriors! dost thou yet Vanquished and captive-dost thou deem that here The glowing day star of thy glory set Dull night has closed upon thy bright career? Old forest lion, caught and caged at last, Dost pant to roam again thy native wild? To gloat upon the life blood flowing fast Of thy crushed victims; and to slay the child, To dabble in the gore of wives and mothers, And kill, old Turk! thy harmless pale-faced brothers? For it was cruel, Black Hawk, thus to flutter Begot in wrongs, and nursed in blood, until To crush the hordes who have the power, and will, To rob thee of thy hunting grounds, and fountains, And drive thee backward to the Rocky Mountains. Spite of thy looks of cold indifference, There's much thou'st seen that must excite thy wonder, Wakes not upon thy quick and startled sense The cannon's harsh and pealing voice of thunder? Thou'st seen our Museums, beheld the dummies Strutting, in paint and feathers, for an hour; Seen their eyes glisten, and their dark brows lower. Anon, thou'st seen them, when their wrath cool'd down, Pass in a moment from a king-to clown. Thou see'st these things unmoved, say'st so, old fellow? Then tell us, have the white man's glowing daughters Set thy cold blood in motion? Has't been mellow By a sly cup or so of our fire waters? They are thy people's deadliest poison. They First make them cowards, and then, white men's slaves, And sloth, and penury, and passion's prey, And lives of misery, and early graves. For by their power, believe me, not a day goes, Say, does thy wandering heart stray far away? For their lost warrior, loud upon thine ear, That, yelled at every corner, meet thee here? Chafes not thy heart, as chafes the panting breast Led, like a walking bear, about the town, A new caught monster, who is all the go, And stared at gratis, by the gaping clown? Boils not thy blood, while thus thou'rt led about, The sport and mockery of the rabble rout? |