His followers should be lords; their ladies each
Wear wreaths of gems beyond the old world's reach;
And emperors, gazing at that land of bloom,
With impotent fire of envy should consume.
Such was the gorgeous vision which he drew.
The listener saw; and, dazzled by the view,-
As one in some enchanter's misty room,
His senses poisoned by the strange perfume,
Beholds with fierce desire the picture fair,
And grasps at nothing in the painted air,
Gave acquiescence, in a fatal hour,
And wealth and hope and peace were in the tempter's
The isle became a rendezvous; and then
Came in the noisy rule of lawless men.
Domestic calm, affrighted, fled afar,
And Riot revelled 'neath the midnight star.
Continuous music rustled through the trees,
Where banners danced responsive on the breeze
Or in festoons, above the astonished bowers,
With flaming colors shamed the modest flowers.
There clanged the mimic combat of the sword,
Like daily glasses round the festive board;
Here lounged the chiefs, there marched the plumèd file,
And martial splendor overran the isle.
Already, the shrewd leader of the sport
The shadowy sceptre grasped, and swayed his court.
In dreams or waking, revelling or alone,
Before him swam the visionary throne;
Until a voice, as if the insulted woods
Had risen to claim their ancient solitudes,
Broke on his spirit, like a trumpet rude,
Shattering his dream to nothing where he stood !
The revellers vanished, and the banners fell,
Like the red leaves beneath November's spell.
Full of great hopes, sustained by mighty will,
Urged by ambition, confident of skill,
As fearless to perform as to devise,
Aflush, but now he saw the glittering prize
Flame like a cloud in day's descending track;
But, lo, the sun went down, and left it black!
Alone, despised, defiance in his eye,
He heard the shout, and "Treason!" was the cry;
And that harsh word, with its unpitying blight,
Swept o'er the island like an arctic night.
Cold grew the hearthstone, withered fell the flowers, And desolation walked among the bowers.
This was the mansion. Through the ruined hall
The loud winds sweep, with gusty rise and fall,
Or glide, like phantoms, through the open doors;
And winter drifts his snow along the floors,
Blown through the yawning rafters, where the stars
And moon look in as through dull prison bars.
On yonder gable, through the nightly dark,
The owl replies unto the dreary bark
Of lonely fox, beside the grass-grown sill;
And here, on summer eves, the whippoorwill
Exalts her voice, and to the traveller's ear
Proclaims how Ruin rules with full contentment here.
Thomas Buchanan Read.
N old, familiar friend! I saw the flow
Of wayward Wabash to Ohio's flood,
Long leagues away from where I learned to know And love the stream; and on its banks I stood As friend meets friend in some familiar wood. Its ripples, wrought to flecks of ashy foam; Its bright, clay-tinted waves; its finny brood; And even the shells half-buried in the loam, All came to me like welcome messages from home.
Here meet and mingle genially in one
The Wabash with Ohio's silver wave.
The Beautiful River! How its waters run,
Inspiring joy and plenty as they lave
The smiling land they irrigate to save.
The Beautiful River! - gentle, clear, and bright,
Beloved now as when the ancient brave
Propelled his swift canoe athwart the light,
Where gorgeous palace boats now break upon
Green islands gem the bosom of the stream;
Their sandy slopes beneath the waters dip;
And on the wooded banks the sunbeams gleam,
Reflected in the dew-drops as they drip
From oaks and elms, and clinging vines that grip
The leafy boughs with loving tendrils strong;
The trumpet-flowers smile with ruddy lip;
The mistletoe extends the boughs along,
And wooes the graceful jay-bird's hoarse but cheerful song.
LOW on, thou glorious river,
Thy mountain-shores between,
To where the Mexique's stormy waves
Dash on savannas green.
Flow on, between the forests
That bend above thy side,
And 'neath the sky and stars, that lie
Mirrored within thy tide.
High in the distant mountains
Thy first small fountains gush,
And down the steep, through the ravine,
In shallow rills they rush;
Till in the level valley,
To which the hills descend,
Converging from the summits, meet
The thousand rills, and blend.
And soon the narrow mountain stream, O'er which a child might leap,
Holds on its course with a giant's force,
In a channel broad and deep.
High up among the mountains,
The fisher boy is seen,
Alone and lounging in the shade,
Along the margin green;
And not a sound disturbs him, save
A squirrel or a bird,
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