GERTRUDE OF WYOMING.

PART III.

I.

O LOVE! in such a wilderness as this,
Where transport and security entwine,
Here is the empire of thy perfect bliss,
And here thou art a god indeed divine.

Here shall no forms abridge, no hours confine
The views, the walks, that boundless joy inspire!
Roll on, ye days of raptured influence, shine!

Nor, blind with ecstasy's celestial fire,

Shall love behold the spark of earth-born time expire.

II.

Three little moons, how short! amidst the grove
And pastoral savannas they consume!

While she, beside her buskin'd youth to rove,
Delights, in fancifully wild costume,

Her lovely brow to shade with Indian plume;

And forth in hunter-seeming vest they fare;
But not to chase the deer in forest gloom;

"Tis but the breath of heaven- the blessed air

And interchange of hearts, unknown, unseen to share.

III.

What though the sportive dog oft round them note,

Or fawn, or wild bird bursting on the wing;
Yet who, in love's own presence, would devote
To death those gentle throats that wake the spring,
Or writhing from the brook its victim bring?
No! nor let fear one little warbler rouse;
But, fed by Gertrude's hand, still let them sing,
Acquaintance of her path, amidst the boughs,
That shade e'en now her love, and witness'd first
her vows.

IV.

Now labyrinths, which but themselves can pierce,
Methinks, conduct them to some pleasant ground,
Where welcome hills shut out the universe,
And pines their lawny walk encompass round;
There, if a pause delicious converse found,
"Twas but when o'er each heart th' idea stole,
(Perchance awhile in joy's oblivion drown'd,)
That come what may, while life's glad pulses

roll,

Indissolubly thus should soul be knit to soul.

V.

And in the visions of romantic youth,

What years of endless bliss are yet to flow?
But, mortal pleasure, what art thou in truth?
The torrent's smoothness, ere it dash below!
And must I change my song? and must I show,
Sweet Wyoming! the day when thou wert doom'd.
Guiltless, to mourn thy loveliest bowers laid low!
When where of yesterday a garden bloom'd,
Death overspread his pall, and blackening ashes
gloom'd!

VI.

Sad was the year, by proud oppression driven,
When Transatlantic Liberty arose,

Not in the sunshine and the smile of heaven,
But wrapt in whirlwinds, and begirt with woes,
Amidst the strife of fratricidal foes;

Her birth-star was the light of burning plains ;* Her baptism is the weight of blood that flows From kindred hearts--the blood of British veins-And famine tracks her steps, and pestilential pains.

VII.

Yet, ere the storm of death had raged remote,
Or siege unseen in heaven reflects its beams,
Who now each dreadful circumstance shall note,

* Alluding to the miseries that attended the American civil war.

That fills pale Gertrude's thoughts, and nightly dreams?

Dismal to her the forge of battle gleams
Portentous light! and music's voice is dumb;
Save where the fife its shrill reveillé screams,
Or midnight streets re-echo to the drum,
That speaks of maddening strife, and bloodstain'd
fields to come.

VIII.

It was in truth a momentary pang;

Yet how comprising myriad shapes of wo!
First when in Gertrude's ear the summons rang,
A husband to the battle doom'd to go!

"Nay, meet not thou (she cries) thy kindred foe, But peaceful let us seek fair England's strand ;" "Ah, Gertrude! thy beloved heart, I know, Would feel like mine the stigmatizing brand! Could I forsake the cause of Freedom's holy band!

IX.

"But shame but flight

prove,

a recreant's name to

To hide in exile ignominious fears;

Say, e'en if this I brook'd, — the public love
Thy father's bosom to his home endears:
And how could I his few remaining years,
My Gertrude, sever from so dear a child ?"
So, day by day, her boding heart he cheers;