popular; so I did not desire to condemn his one vigorous effort for more freedom.

But what have you there, Miss Jane? Shells? How could I forget to ask you to look at my little collection? Apropos, I saw yesterday a beautiful specimen of shell work. Not that I admire that artificial arrangement of shells, but this is fine of its kind. Master Frank, will you speak to my man John? John, take my compliments to Miss Margaret Hill, and request the loan of a box I was admiring there yesterday. Be careful, John. She values it very highly, but I think she will not refuse me. Stay, John, I will mount Billy Button, for I have an engagement. Sorry to leave you, ladies. Heart-broken that we cannot make Washington more pleasant to you. Oh! Miss Anna, and you Miss Jane, remember me, if my little gift prospers. Mrs. Somers, help the young ladies, if you can.' And he bowed and shuffled his way out. A few moments after, the shell box was brought in, and we admired it as much as it deserved, and did not forget to notice the main point, that Major Dart would not have had overlooked, that the admired Miss Margaret Hill yielded her treasures at his slightest wish. Our keepsakes proved nothing more than little withered bulbs, though they were doubtless from Major Dart's horticultural friends in Holland. Mine never made an effort to grow, and Anna Clair says, in a letter some six months afterward, 'Oh! Jane, what flattering words Major Dart used! and to me particularly, as Alice and you admitted. But

'Hopes that were angels in their birth

Have perished young, like things of earth.'

My flower proved to be a Narcissus. The giver must have died before this of self-adoration.'

A REPLY

TO LINES ADDRESSED TO THE AUTHOR OF THE OAK BY THE WAYSIDE."

THE time of singing birds hath come, of blossoms, and of leaves,
Of the robin on the green-wood branch, the swallow 'neath the eaves;
The violets by the fountain side, their fragrant odors pour,

And the old elms wave their feathery crests, as lightly as of yore;
The unchained streamlets o'er the hills are leaping bright and free,
And the rush of many a river soundeth onward to the sea;

Here, where thy winds, my early home! breathe coolly o'er my brow,
Rest I once more beneath the oak, and its o'ershadowing bough.

Mirth and the bounding footstep had left the revel hall,
And harp, and song, and ringing cup, the nightly festival;

And quenched on its deserted hearth, was many a household fire,
And sunlight from mine eastern hills, burned high on dome and spire;
The voices of my kindred came whispering to my heart,

And the echoes of mine ancient graves seemed to call me to depart;
Thou, where thou standest, wayside oak, fresh garlanded by spring,
Wert, with thy giant outspread arms, me onward beckoning.

I joy to find thy gnarléd limbs in scattered foliage gay;

Thou 'rt hale, old tree! and vigorous-still green, 'mid thy decay!
I glory in thy strength, which still defieth bolt and storm,
But I mourn that here, in loneliness, uprears thine aged form.

When from thy forest parent bough, some wild wind sweeping by,
Bade thee shoot forth, strike root, and toss thy branches to the sky,
Whispered it that the severed one for home afar would yearn,
But, like the bird of paradise, might never more return?

Weary within the palaces and halls of grandeur, lies
The heart which to AMBITION itself doth sacrifice;

True, Care doth weave the web o'er all!-it spreadeth wide and far,
O'er the lowly peasant in his dell, the conqueror on his car;
Yet none, not e'en the sternest soul, its griefs alone would bear,
But the sorrows of the mighty, what kindred soul may share?
O sweetly wells the desert fount beneath the palm tree hid,
While lone and lofty mid the sands, uprears the pyramid.

11

Praised be the philanthropic heart, that throbs to aid its kindPraised be the open hand, outspread a brother's wounds to bind ; Honor to him, whose franchised mind achieveth him a lot, Beyond the circumscribed domain which bounds his father's cot: O! save me from that fate- to live 'unblessing, and unknown,' And shield me from that loftiness, which dwells alone-- alone! New-England, June, 1838.

IONE.

THE ATLANTINES: A ROMANCE OF AMERICA.

BY JOHN GALT, ESQ., AUTHOR OF 'ANNALS OF THE PARISH,' 'LAURIE TODD,' ETC.

INSCRIBED TO PHILIP HONE, ESQ., NEW-YORK, AND MY OTHER AMERICAN FRIENDS.

THE brightest tints of many a glowing gleam
Appeared to me in your wild sylvan land;

For that I beckon to a sleepless dream

The sprites that wait on the poetic wand.
Methought I there could, without fancy, trace
The old memorials of a perish'd race,

The former fathers of the firm and bland;
And there the grave of some great overthrow,
Whose moulder'd epitaph still seem'd to tell
Of men who slumber with their arts below,
Like Egypt's sires that with oblivion dwell.
To these, when sleep at midnight wing'd away,
Pale memory pointed with her lunar ray,
And bade me thus to you the phatasma display.

Greenock, 1837.

PREFACE.

IT is not, however, so much the domiciliation of the incidents of this romance, nor the remembrance of much kindness, that induces me to wish it may be published in America, and become honored there with some degree of favor, as because it affords me an opportunity to direct attention to a subject more important than any theme of poetry, and which I have long deemed worthy of the gravest consideration.

Many years ago, in a conversation with my old friend, President West, of the Royal Academy, he mentioned an interesting circumstance connected with the Independence of the United States, which I will here repeat.

Mr. Jacob Duchey was celebrated throughout the whole of the British provinces in America, as a most pathetic and persuasive preacher. The publicity of his character in the world was, however, chiefly owing to a letter which he addressed to WASHINGTON, Soon

after the appointment of that chief to the command of the army. The purport of this letter was, to persuade the general to go over to the British cause. It was carried to him by a Mrs. Ferguson, a daughter of one Dr. Graham, a Scottish physician in Philadelphia. Washington at that time lay at Valley Forge, and this lady, on the pretext of paying him a visit, as they were previously acquainted, went to the camp. The general received her in his tent, with much respect, for he greatly admired the masculine vigor of her mind.

When she had delivered the letter, he read it attentively, and rising from his seat, walked backward and forward upward of an hour, without speaking. He appeared to be much agitated during the greatest part of the time; but at length, having decided with himself, he stopped, and addressed her in nearly the following words:

'Madam, I have always esteemed your character and endowments: and I am fully sensible of the noble principles by which you are actuated on this occasion; nor has any man in the whole continent more confidence in the integrity of his friend, than I have in the honor of Mr. Duchey. But I am here entrusted by the people of America with sovereign authority. They have placed their lives and fortunes at my disposal, believing me to be an honest man. Were I therefore to desert their cause, and consign them again to the British, what would be the consequence? To myself perpetual infamy, and to them endless calamity. The seeds of everlasting division are sown between the two countries. And, were the British again to become our masters, they would have to maintain their dominion by force, and would after all retain us in subjection only as they would hold their bayonets to our breasts. No, madam; the proposal of Mr. Duchey, though conceived with the best intention, is not framed in wisdom. America and England must be separate states; but they may have common interests, for they are BUT ONE PEOPLE. It will therefore be the object of my life and ambition, to establish the independence of America in the first place; and in the second, to arrange such a community of interests between the two nations, as shall indemnify them for the calamities which they now suffer, and form a new era in the history of nations.'

This declaration made on me a lasting impression. I well remember when on the first occasion I landed at New-York, the kind of convulsive emotion with which I heard, on every side, that the parent language of the country was English. It affected me with a kind of painful surprise, although I well knew I was to hear no other; and from that evening, the words of Washington took enfeoffment of my mind. Often and often did I think in America of what ways the notion of the general could be reduced into the form of a compact, and I think so still; but I am too little of a politician to say how the desideratum may be attained. Nevertheless, one of the objects of the publication is, to suggest the consideration of the measure to the benevoent and the enlightened. To what influence, indeed, might not the great free nations aspire, over 'the nations not so blest,' were they bound together by a fellowship such as the ' EMANCIPATOR OF THE WEST' contemplated!

17th March, 1838.

J. G.

To me, with silence at the midnight hour,
When but the stars and I to fancy seem
Of all the world awake, thy woodlands wild
Loom like a halo-fram'd apocalypse,
And many a vision of things pass'd away
Assume the part that dreams perform in sleep.
The time-built trees, the labyrinths of woods,
And the lone holiness that dwells therein,
Dilate my spirit with sublimity,

As when I first felt, on the shoreless sea,
The viewless presence of the Infinite.

Oft when the fitful whisp'ring summer breeze
Rustled the foliage as in wantonness,

I paus'd to listen, as alone I stray'd,
Thinking of ocean and the starry night,
When the calm moon, high in the blue serene,
Survey'd below the hoary-headed waves,
Like old men murm'ring prayers of miseries,
As if in expectation that the heavens
Would alter destiny for their imploring.

But not in summer, when the kindly gale
Fann'd with delight, I only lov'd to roam
The wildering wilderness of ancient woods;
For in the turbulence of crash and storm,
Oft have I stood, enraptured with amaze,
To hear the mighty anthems of the boughs,
And see, with minglings of poetic thought,
The glorious light'nings pierce the vaulting leaves,
Showering a momentary day around,

Strewing the earth as 't were with radiant plumes,
Snatch'd by black demons from the angels' wings.

Yet though at times, when winter ruled the year,
And fear, the bedlamite, with arms outspread,
Rode on the mane of the unbridled blast,
Allured by dismal pleasure, I have sought
The top of some steep height, more did I love
To mark the openings of the balmy bud
In the soft air, when gracious spring reveal'd
Her emerald tints, bright upon every bough;
For then I saw divine Benevolence
Wreathe with the genial spirit of the day
The green assurances of plenty stor❜d,
And invitations to the thralls of care

To seek asylums where a man may scorn
The burly beadles of the feudal world.

But every season in the sylvan wild

Hath some peculiar solace of its own

To soothe the troubled mind; and thus though spring Seem'd joyous as the hopeful heart of youth,

It was not only with her promises

That I in lone sequester'd walks was pleas'd.
The fragrant greetings of the opening flower

9

Inspir'd still happier themes, for then the birds,
Though but at intervals too long, sing gay,
Till solitude grows social, and the rills,
Which noisy prattle in the vernal prime,
Like boist'rous children glad with holiday,
Pour their pure waters shrinkingly along,
As holy maidens, young and modestly,
Whisper responses at their confirmation.

But thou, O autumn! gorgeous, glorious queen!
To thee admiring homage most I paid,

Deeming that earth might then in splendor vie
With Heaven at eve. Bright sunset of the year!
All then seem'd flame, and all the forest then
An unconsuming conflagration blaz'd.
In such a scene, when the still bowery glade
Was all around full of strange mystic light,
As if, amidst the darkness of the shade,
Th' aurora of the northern morning shone,
Arak, a young Atlantine, musing, said:

'How holy is this calm magnificence

Of nountain, lake, and wood! The ceaseless roar
Of the hoarse cataract, by distance soften'd,
Seems as the soothing lull of Nature's voice.
Here I will pause, till old Orooko comes,
Nor on the simple worshippers intrude,
Who still with him refuse the Christian faith,
And midst those scenes of solemn loneliness,
With aimless rites and ineffectual prayers,
Adore the phantasies our nations serv'd,
Till blest Antonio from the ocean came."

This Arak said, what time, like crested Mars,
Renown'd Sir Godfrey shook Jerusalem;
And as he spoke, abruptly from the bowers,
Orooko came, a pensive, aged man.

'And who,' cried he, 'art thou, who in these shades Presum'st, in that apostate's garb, to steal?'

'Dost thou not know me?' sigh'd the vestur'd youth, As if in doubt such strangeness were but feign'd.

'What, Arak! is it thee?' Arak advanc'd, But th' old man, recoiling, said in tears:

'Nay, no embrace! thou hast the gods forsaken, And I, their priest, must never more again Receive thee to these arms, nor ever raise

My hands above thee to implore THEIR blessing.

O ye unknown, dread and beneficent!

Pardon these tears, forgive my weak old heart,
That would extenuate this young man's sin!
But Arak, if in penitence thou com'st,

I'll bathe thy forehead with most joyous tears.'

Arak look'd seriously, and sadly said,

As if his heart were written with contrition,

'I bring a message to you from the king.'

Orooko sigh'd, and musingly awhile

Paus'd ere he spoke, and then said, as in sorrow:

What would he now with me? Oh! he might spare

The little remnant I have left of life

To the deserted worship of the gods -

Our fathers' gods. The ever-bounteous powers,

Who never on our blest contented tribes

Sent civil discord, till that fatal hour

When on our coast the baleful stranger came,

Like something ominous cast from the sea!'

Sad arak heard him as a son attends

The aimless babble of his sire insane: