Though all thy sins shall be forgiven,
And blotted from the book of heaven;
Their shades, shall flit around, and fling
Dark horror, from their raven wing;
And bitter be each future year,
Unless the SPRING of life is clear.
In early life when trusting youth
Thinks all is goodness, worth, and truth,
A holy inmate charms man's breast,
And lulls its many woes to rest.
It watches o'er his pillowed head,
And lures sweet slumbers to his bed;
It adds fresh charms to morning's ray,
And guards him through the eventful day—
No might, but his, can bid depart,
That holy inmate from his heart
Tis stainless conscience-boon of heaven, To man, for heavenly purpose, given.
But when amidst the world he roves,
And that he ought to hate, he loves,
Unheeded past its frequent cries,
The holy inmate quickly dies;
But oft within the varying scene,
When thought his follies wakes betwee;
But oft within the gloom of night,
Its shade, avenging, meets his sight-
Comes, decked with all the warmth of youth,
When life was love, and peace and truth,
Comes, decked with all the charms that blest,
In early life, his guiltless breast.
It smiles-in fancied view, appears
The virtuous bliss of youthful years;
It frowns-before his blasted eyes,
His present vices hideous rise.
Many years had passed, and many things,
Those envious years had taken away with them.
Yet left they nought? yes! poverty and woe.
But MEMORY, like the shower, that cheers and gladdens
The weary wanderer in the dreary waste,
Came fresh upon me-and then I thought
Of home and happiness, of youth and love.
Thither my footsteps turned. In fancied view,
As still the tedious road wound slow and far,
And many, many miles, must still be passed,
I saw a smiling group, with welcome aid,
Prepared to soothe the wanderer's many woes.
A brother, mindful of a brother's peace,
A sister, tender to a brother's grief,
A mother, glowing with a mother's love.
I reached the door-but as in days long past,
It showed no joyful croud of eager faces,
In joyful strife to ask affection's question,
Of health and welfare, happiness and her,
Whom fate, alas! has numbered with the dead.
I reached the door-but there no brother's hand
With fervent clasp of brother's love, pressed mine;
No sister gave, of joy a pledge, a kiss;
No mother opéd her arms to bless her son.
1 reached the door-and loud and long I knocked;
At length, a face appeared, as strange and cold,
As to the traveller from chamber warm,
The unexpected waste of morning snows.
I trembling asked-live they, and live in health?
No, they are dead—and strangers hold their mansion?
I turned away-would'st thou believe it, friend?
These tearless eyes, that, many, many years,
Have pored, with dry and parched earnestness,
On all the woes that human nature suffers,
Wept then-and bitter, bitter, were the tears.
And nature too, in scorn of mortal man,
Look'd just the same, as if no change had past.
The same the greensward sloping to the gate;
The same the verdant smoothness of its surface,
As when, in infancy, I sported on it.
The honey-suckle wound its odorous boughs,
many folds around the arched bower,
The same in verdure, and in sweets the same,
As when, ah sad the thought! Eliza's hand
Formed, from its dewy flowers, a wreath for me.
O that, since man is sadly mutable,
With things inanimate, whose changeless forms,
No storms of human misery can wreck,
I could alliance and strict friendship form.
For though the gloomy winds of cheerless winter
Might strip the wild woods of their clothing bare,
Or vernal breezes dress them in their green;
Yet would they not, like man, like wayward man,
In summer, mock me with their leafless boughs-
In winter, cool me with their verdant shade.
To the north-western wilds has our gallant youth gone-
Though his breast, with a tempest of feeling, was torn,
Yet he scorned a weak tear, and disdained a weak sigh-
He is wedded to vengeance, or bounden to die,
For the horror-fraught fate of the victim so dear,
To the heart of the hero, the brave volunteer.
On his dauntless steed borne, he hastens to ride,
On his shoulder his rifle, his sword by his side-
O'er rivers, through forests, like the swift wind he flies
To the sounds, that he pants for, the battle-field's cries.
For wedded to vengeance, and stranger to fear,
Is the heart of the hero, the brave volunteer.
Hurra! at MORAVIA, that battle-cry wakes,
From the ranks the dire peal of the musketry breaks.
The brave volunteer, 'midst the death-flashing cloud,
Invokes the dear name of the murdered, aloud;
Then quick to the charge, with his death-dealing blow,
Pours his wrath on the friends of the hatchet and bow.
For wedded to vengeance, a stranger to fear,
Is the soul of the hero, the brave volunteer.
At that dread hour of night, when his cherished love bled,
And her mangled form slept with the massacred dead,
He had sworn a dread oath, that his rifle and steel,
On the merciless demons, deep vengeance should deal,
For the horror-fraught fate of the victim so dear
To the heart of the hero, the brave volunteer.
Then joy to the brave volunteer, who has sped
To the wilds of the north-west, where thousands have
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