Alas! to mend the breaches wide But here once more to view did pop The man that kept his senses. And now he cried-" Stop, neighbors! stop! The Ox is mad! I would not swop, No, not a school-boy's farthing top For all the parish fences. "The Ox is mad! Ho! Dick, Bob, Mat! What means this coward fuss? Ho! stretch this rope across the plat"T will trip him up-or if not that, Why, damme! we must lay him flatSee, here's my blunderbuss!" "A lying dog! just now he said, The Ox was only glad, Let's break his Presbyterian head!""Hush!" quoth the sage, "you've been misled, No quarrels now-let's all make headYou drove the poor Ox mad!" As thus I sat in careless chat, With the morning's wet newspaper, And so my Muse perforce drew bit, And in he rush'd and panted:Well, have you heard?"-"No! not a whit." "What! han't you heard?"-Come, out with it!" "That Tierney votes for Mister Pitt, And Sheridan's recanted." II. LOVE POEMS. Quas humilis tenero stylus olim effudit in ævo. Pectore nunc gelido calidos miseremur amantes, Petrarch. INTRODUCTION TO THE TALE OF THE DARK LADIE. The following Poem is intended as the introduction to a somewhat longer one. The use of the old Ballad word Ladie for Lady, is the only piece of obsoleteness in it; and as it is professedly a tale of ancient times, I trust that the affectionate, lovers of venerable antiquity (as Camden says] will grant me their pardon, and perhaps may be induced to admit a force and propriety in it. A heavier objection may be adduced against the author, that in these times of fear and expectation, when novelties explode around us in all directions, he should presume to offer to the public a silly tale of old-fashioned love: and five years ago, I own I should have allowed and felt the force of this objection. But, alas! explosion has succeeded explosion so rapidly, that novelty itself ceases to appear new; and it is possible that now even a simple story, wholly uninspired with politics or personality, may find some attention amid the hubbub of revolutions, as to those who have remained a long time by the falls of Niagara, the lowest whispering becomes distinct ly audible. S. T. C Dec. 21, 1799. O LEAVE the lily on its stem; O leave the rose upon the spray; O leave the elder bloom, fair maids! And listen to my lay. A cypress and a myrtle-bough This morn around my harp you twined Because it fashion'd mournfully Its murmurs in the wind. And now a Tale of Love and Woe, A woful Tale of Love I sing ; Hark, gentle maidens, hark! it sighs And trembles on the string. But most, my own dear Genevieve, It sighs and trembles most for thee! O come, and hear what cruel wrongs Befell the Dark Ladie. Few Sorrows hath she of her own, All thoughts, all passions, all delights, Oh! ever in my waking dreams, The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene, Had blended with the lights of eve; And she was there, my hope, my joy, My own dear Genevieve! She lean'd against the armed man, The statue of the armed knight; She stood and listen'd to my harp, Amid the ling'ring light. I play'd a sad and doleful air, I sang an old and moving story—— An old rude song, that fitted well That ruin wild and hoary. She listen'd with a flitting blush, With downcast eyes and modest grace; For well she knew, I could not choose But gaze upon her face." I told her of the Knight that wore Upon his shield a burning brand; And how for ten long years he woo'd The Ladie of the Land: I told her how he pined: and ah! She listen'd with a fitting blush; With downcast eyes, and modest grace; And she forgave me, that I gazed Too fondly on her face! But when I told the cruel scorn That crazed this bold and lonely Knight, And how he roam'd the mountain-woods, Nor rested day or night; And how he cross'd the woodman's paths, Through briers and swampy mosses beat; How boughs rebounding scourged his limbs, And low stubs gored his feet; That sometimes from the savage den, And sometimes from the darksome shade, There came and look'd him in the face And how, unknowing what he did, And how she wept, and clasp'd his knees; And how she tended him in vain And meekly strove to expiate The scorn that crazed his brain: And how she nursed him in a cave; His dying words-but when I reach'd All impulses of soul and sense Had thrill'd my guiltless Genevieve; The music and the doleful tale, The rich and balmy eve; And hopes and fears that kindle hope, Subdued and cherish'd long! She wept with pity and delight, She blush'd with love and maiden-shame; And, like the murmurs of a dream, I heard her breathe my name. saw her bosom heave and swell, Heave and swell with inward sighs I could not choose but love to see Her wet cheek glow'd: she stept aside. She half inclosed me with her arms, She press'd me with a meek embrace; And bending back her head, look'd up. And gazed upon my face. "T was partly love, and partly fear, And partly 't was a bashful art, That I might rather feel than see The swelling of her heart. I calm'd her fears, and she was calm, And told her love with virgin pride; And so I won my Genevieve, My bright and beauteous bride. And now once more a tale of woe, A woeful tale of love I sing: For thee, my Genevieve! it sighs, And trembles on the string. When last I sang the cruel scorn That crazed this bold and lonely Knight, And how he roam'd the mountain-woods Nor rested day or night; I promised thee a sister tale Of man's perfidious cruelty: Come, then, and hear what cruel wrong Befell the Dark Ladie. LEWTI, OR THE CIRCASSIAN Ar midnight by the stream I roved, The moon was high, the moonlight gleam But the rock shone brighter far, I saw a cloud of palest hue, Onward to the moon it pass'd; Till it reach'd the moon at last : And with such joy I find my Lewti: And even so my pale wan cheek Drinks in as deep a flush of beauty! Nay, treacherous image! leave my mind, If Lewti never will be kind. The little cloud-it floats away, Away it goes; away so soon? And now 't is whiter than before! When, Lewti! on my couch I lie, A dying man for love of thee. Nay, treacherous image! leave my mind→→ And yet thou didst not look unkind. O'er rocks, or bare or mossy, with wild foot Here Wisdom might resort, and here Remorse; But hence, fond wretch! breathe not contagion No myrtle-walks are these: these are no groves And you, ye Earth-winds! you that make at morn Creep through a thorn-bush on yon hedgehog's back This is my hour of triumph! I can now Close by this river, in this silent shade, Shiver in sunshine, but his feeble heart Shall flow away like a dissolving thing. Sweet breeze! thou only, if I guess aright, Liftest the feathers of the robin's breast, That swells its little breast, so full of song, Singing above me, on the mountain-ash. And thou too, desert Stream! no pool of thine, Though clear as lake in latest summer-eve, Did e'er reflect the stately virgin's robe, The face, the form divine, the downcast look • Contemplative! Behold! her open palm Presses her cheek and brow! her elbow rests On the bare branch of half-uprooted tree, That leans towards its mirror! Who erewhile Had from her countenance turn'd, or look'd stealth Placeless, as spirits, one soft water-sun Throbbing within them, Heart at once and Eye! With its soft neighborhood of filmy clouds, The stains and shadings of forgotten tears, Dimness o'erswum with lustre! Such the hour Of deep enjoyment, following love's brief feuds, And hark, the noise of a near waterfall! I pass forth into light-I find myself Beneath a weeping birch (most beautiful Of forest-trees, the Lady of the woods), Hard by the brink of a tall weedy rock That overbrows the cataract. How bursts The landscape on my sight! Two crescent hills Fold in behind each other, and so make A circular vale, and land-lock'd, as might seem, by With brook and bridge, and gray stone cottages, Half hid by rocks and fruit-trees. At my feet, The whortle-berries are bedew'd with spray, Dash'd upwards by the furious waterfall. How solemnly the pendent ivy mass Swings in its winnow: all the air is calm. (For fear is true love's cruel nurse), he now . And soon the fragments dim of lovely forms maze Which he shall seek in vain. Ill-fated youth! Not to thee, O wild and desert Stream! belongs this tale: This be my chosen haunt-emancipate The smoke from cottage-chimneys, tinged with light, Rises in columns; from this house alone, A curious picture, with a master's haste THE NIGHT-SCENE. A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT. SANDOVAL You loved the daughter of Don Manrique? EARL HENRY. Oh! I were most base, EARL HENRY. Ah! was that bhss I caught her arms; the veins were swelling on them That kindled love with love. And when her sire, Through the dark bower she sent a hollow voice, Who in his dream of hope already grasp'd Of ancient feuds pour'd curses on my head, But thou art stern, and with unkindly countenance SANDOVAL. Anxiously, Henry! reasoning anxiously. EARL HENRY. Blessings gather round her! Within this wood there winds a secret passage, Oh! what if all betray me? what if thou? I swore, and with an inward thought that seem'd I would exchange my unblench'd state with hers- [EARL HENRY retires into the wood SANDOVAL (alone). O Henry! always strivest thou to be great She, nothing trembling, led me through that gloom, The whirl-blast comes, the desert-sands rise up And to that covert by a silent stream, Which, with one star reflected near its marge, To that sweet bower! Then Oropeza trembled- SANDOVAL. A rude and scaring note, my friend! EARL HENRY. Oh! no! I have small memory of aught but pleasure. And shape themselves: from Earth to Heaven they |