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Whether with Hebe's mirth her features shone,

Or if a shade more pleasing them o'ercast, (As if for heavenly musing meant alone ;) Yet so becomingly th' expression past,

X.

But high in amphitheatre above,

His arms the everlasting aloes threw :
Breathed but an air of heav'n, and all the grove

That each succeeding look was lovelier than the As if with instinct living spirit grew,

last.

V.

Nor guess I, was that Pennsylvanian home,
With all its picturesque and balmy grace,
And fields that were a luxury to roam,

Lost on the soul that looked from such a face!
Enthusiast of the woods! when years apace
Had bound thy lovely waist with woman's zone,
The sun-rise path, at morn, I see thee trace
To hills with high magnolia overgrown,

Rolling its verdant gulfs of every hue;
And now suspended was the pleasing din,
Now from a murmur faint it swelled anew,
Like the first note of organ heard within
Cathedral aisles,-
-ere yet its symphony begin.

XI.

It was in this lone valley she would charm
The ling'ring noon, where flow'rs a couch had

strewn ;

Her cheek reclining, and her snowy arm

And joy to breathe the groves, romantic and On hillock by the palm-tree half o'ergrown:

alone.

VI.

The sun-rise drew her thoughts to Europe forth, That thus apostrophized its viewless scene: "Land of my father's love, my mother's birth! The home of kindred I have never seen! We know not other-oceans are between: Yet say! far friendly hearts, from whence we came,

Of us does oft remembrance intervene ?

My mother sure-my sire a thought may claim;But Gertrude is to you an unregarded name.

VII.

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And nought within the grove was heard or seen But stock-doves plaining through its gloom pro. found,

Or winglet of the fairy humming-bird,
Like atoms of the rainbow fluttering round;

'And yet, loved England! when thy name I When, lo! there entered to its inmost ground

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Yet deem not Gertrude sighed for foreign joy;
To soothe a father's couch her only care,
And keep his rev'rend head from all annoy :
For this, methinks, her homeward steps repair,
Soon as the morning wreath had bound her hair;
While yet the wild deer trod in spangling dew,
While boatmen carrolled to the fresh-blown air,
And woods a horizontal shadow threw,
And early fox appeared in momentary view.
IX.

Apart there was a deep untrodden grot,
Where oft the reading hours sweet Gertrude wore;
Tradition had not named its lonely spot;
But here, methinks, might India's sons explore
Their fathers' dust, or lift, perchance, of yore,
Their voice to the great Spirit :-rocks sublime
To human art a sportive semblance bore,
And yellow lichens coloured all the clime,
Like moonlight battlements, and towers decayed
by time.

It is a custom of the Indian tribes to visit the tombs of their ancestors in the cultivated parts of America, who have been buried for upwards of a century.

VOL. II.-29

A youth, the stranger of a distant land;
He was, to weet, for eastern mountains bound;
But late th' equator suns his cheek had tanned,
And California's gales his roving bosom fanned.

XIII.

A steed, whose rein hung loosely o'er his arm,
He led dismounted; ere his leisure pace,
Amid the brown leaves, could her ear alarm,
Close he had come, and worshipped for a space
Those downcast features:-she her lovely face
Uplift on one, whose lineaments and frame
Were youth and manhood's intermingled grace:
Iberian seemed his boot-his robe the same,
And well the Spanish plume his lofty looks be

came.

XIV.

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Nor less each rural image he designed
Than all the city's pomp and home of human- Impart, and I my weakness all betray;

Lest one that knew me might some tidings dire

kind.

XVI.

Anon some wilder portraiture he draws;

Of Nature's savage glories he would speak,-
The loneliness of earth that overawes,-
Where, resting by some tomb of old Cacique,
The lama-driver on Peruvia's peak,
Nor living voice nor motion marks around;
But storks that to the boundless forest shriek,
Or wild-cane arch high flung o'er gulf profound,
That fluctuates when the storms of El Dorado
sound.

XVII.

Pleased with his guest, the good man still would
ply

Each earnest question, and his converse court;
But Gertrude, as she eyed him, knew not why
A strange and troubling wonder stopt her short.
In England thou hast been,-and, by report,
An orphan's name (quoth Albert) may'st have
known.

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Sad tale-when latest fell our frontier fort,-
One innocent-one soldier's child-alone

For had I lost my Gertrude and my sire,
I meant but o'er your tombs to weep a day-
Unknown I meant to weep, unknown to pass
away.

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XXI.

"But here ye live,-ye bloom,-in each dear
face

The changing hand of time I may not blame;
For there, it hath but shed more reverend grace,
And here of beauty perfected the frame;
And well I know your hearts are still the same,-
They could not change-ye look the very way,
As when an orphan first to you I came.
And have ye heard of my poor guide, I pray?
Nay, wherefore weep ye, friends, on such a
joyous day?"

XXII.

"And art thou here? or is it but a dream?
And wilt thou, Waldegrave, wilt thou leave us
more?"

"No, never! thou that yet dost lovelier seem
Than aught on earth-than ev'n thyself of yore-
I will not part thee from thy father's shore;

Was spared, and brought to me, who loved him But we shall cherish him with mutual arms,

as my own.

XVIII.

"Young Henry Waldegrave! three delightful

years

These very walls his infant sports did see;
But most I loved him when his parting tears
Alternately bedewed my child and me:
His sorest parting, Gertrude, was from thee;
Nor half its grief his little heart could hold :
By kindred he was sent for o'er the sea,
They tore him from us when but twelve years
old,

And scarcely for his loss have I been yet con-
soled!"

XIX.

Ilis face the wanderer hid-but could not hide
A tear, a smile, upon his cheek that dwell ;—
And speak! mysterious stranger!" (Gertrude
cried ;)

"It is!-it is!-I knew-I knew him well!

And hand in hand again the path explore,
Which every ray of young remembrance warms,
While thou shalt be my own, with all thy truth
and charms."

XXIII.

At morn, as if beneath a galaxy

Of over-arching groves in blossoms white,
Where all was od'rous scent and harmony,
And gladness to the heart, nerve, ear, and sight:
There if, oh, gentle Love! I read aright
The utterance that sealed thy sacred bond,
'Twas list'ning to these accents of delight,
She hid upon his breast those eyes, beyond
Expression's pow'r to paint, all languishingly
fond.

XXIV.

"Flow'r of my life, so lovely, and so lone! Whom I would rather in this desert meet, Scorning, and scorned by fortune's pow'r, than

Own

'Tis Waldegrave's self, of Waldegrave come to Her pomp and splendours lavished at my feet!

tell!"

A burst of joy the father's lips declare ;
But Gertrude speechless on his bosom fell:
At once his open arms embrace the pair,

Turn not from me thy breath, more exquisite Than odours cast on heaven's own shrine-to please

Give me thy love, than luxury more sweet,

Was never group more blest, in this wide world And more than all the wealth that loads the

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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 ecstacy's celestial fire,

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

II.

Three little moons, how short! amid the grove
And pastoral savannas they consume!
While she, beside her buskined 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 heav'n-the blessed air-

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 heav'n reflects its beams,
Who now each dreadful circumstance shall note,
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 reveille screams,
Or midnight streets re-echo to the drum,
That speaks of madd'ning strife, and blood-stained
fields to come.

VIII.

It was in truth a momentary pang;

Yet how comprising myriad shapes of woe!
First when in Gertrude's ear the summons rang,
A husband to the battle doomed to go!
"Nay, meet not thou (she cries) thy kindred
foe;

And interchange of hearts unknown, unseen to But peaceful let us seek fair England's strand!"

share.

III.

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Ah, Gertrude! thy beloved heart, I know, Would feel, like mine, the stigmatizing brand! What though the sportive dog oft round them Could I forsake the cause of Freedom's holy band.

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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
doomed,

Guiltless, to mourn thy loveliest bow'rs laid low!
When where of yesterday a garden bloomed,
Death overspread his pall, and black'ning ashes
gloomed.

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;

IX.

"But shame-but flight-a recreant's name to prove,

To hide in exile ignominious fears;
Say, e'en if this I brooked, the public love
And how could I his few remaining years,
Thy father's bosom to his home endears:
My Gertrude, sever from so dear a child?"
So, day by day, her boding heart he cheers;
At last that heart to hope is half beguiled,
And, pale through tears suppressed, the mournful
beauty smiled.

X.

Night came, and in their lighted bow'r, full late,
The joy of converse had endured—when, hark!
Abrupt and loud a summons shook their gate;
And, heedless of the dog's obstrep'rous bark,

A form has rushed amidst them from the dark,
And spread his arms,-and fell upon the floor:
Of aged strength his limbs retain the mark;
But desolate he looked, and famished, poor,
As ever shipwrecked wretch lone left on desert
shore.

XI.

Upris'n, each wond'ring brow is knit and arched:
A spirit from the dead they deem him first:
To speak he tries; but quivering, pale, and parch'd,
From lips, as by some pow'rless dream accursed,
Emotions unintelligible burst;
And long his filmed eye is red and dim ;
At length the pity-proffered cup his thirst
Had half assuaged, and nerved his shuddering
limb,

When Albert's hand he grasped ;-but Albert knew not him

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

XII.

"And hast thou then forgot," (he cried forlorn,
And eyed the group with half indignant air,)
"Oh! hast thou, Christian chief, forgot the morn
When I with thee the cup of peace did share?
Then stately was this head, and dark this hair,
That now is white as Appalachia's snow;
But, if the weight of fifteen years' despair,
And age, hath bowed me, and the torturing foe,
Bring me my boy-and he will his deliverer
know!"

XIII.

It was not long, with eyes and heart of flame,
Ere Henry to his lov'd Oneyda flew :

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Bless thee, my guide!"-but, backward, as he These old bewildered eyes could guess, by signs

came,

The chief his old bewildered head withdrew,
And grasped his arm, and looked and looked him
through.

'Twas strange-nor could the group a smile con-
trol-

The long, the doubtful scrutiny to view :-
At last delight o'er all his features stole,
"It is my own," he cried, and clasped him to
his soul.

XIV.

"Yes! thou recall'st my pride of years, for then
The bowstring of my spirit was not slack,
When, spite of woods, and floods, and ambush'd
men,

I bore thee like the quiver on my back,
Fleet as the whirlwind hurries on the rack;
Nor foeman then, nor cougar's crouch I feared,*
For I was strong as mountain cataract:
And dost thou not remember how we cheered,
Upon the last hill-top, when white men's huts
appeared?

XV.

'But go!—and rouse your warriors;-for, if right
Of striped and starred banners, on yon height
Of eastern cedars, o'er the creek of pines-
Some fort embattled by your country shines:
Deep roars th' innavigable gulf below
Its squared rock, and palisaded lines.
Go! seek the light its warlike beacons show;
While I in ambush wait, for vengeance, and the
foe!"

XIX.

Scarce had he uttered-when heav'n's verge

extreme

Reverberates the bomb's descending star,-
And sounds that mingled laugh,—and shout,-
and scream,—

To freeze the blood, in one discordant jar,
Rung to the pealing thunderbolts of war.
Whoop after whoop with rack the ear assailed'
As if unearthly fiends had burst their bar;
While rapidly the marksman's shot prevailed:
And aye, as if for death, some lonely trumpet
wailed.

XX.

Then looked they to the hills, where fire o'erhung

"Then welcome be my death-song, and my The bandit groups, in one Vesuvian glare;

death!

Since I have seen thee, and again embraced."
And longer had he spent his toil worn breath;
But, with affectionate and eager haste,
Was every arm outstretched around their guest,
To welcome, and to bless his aged head.
Soon was the hospitable banquet placed;
And Gertrude's lovely hands a balsam shed
On wounds with fever'd joy that more profusely
bled.

XVI.

"But this is not a time," he started up,

Or swept, far seen, the tow'r, whose clock un

rung,

Told legible that midnight of despair.
She faints,-she falters not,-th' heroic fair,-
As he the sword and plume in haste arrayed.
One short embrace-he clasped his dearest care-
But hark! what nearer war-drum shakes the
glade?

Joy, joy! Columbia's friends are trampling
through the shade!

XXI.

Then came of every race the mingled swarm,

And smote his breast with woe-denouncing hand-Far rung the groves, and gleamed the midnight

"This is no time to fill the joyous cup,
The Mammoth comes,-the foe, the Monster
Brandt,t

With all his howling desolating band;-
These eyes have seen their blade, and burning
pine

Awake at once, and silence half your land.
Red is the cup they drink, but not with wine:
Awake, and watch to-night! or see no morning

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Brandt was the leader of those Mohawks, and And in, the buskined hunters of the deer,

other savages, who laid waste this part of Pennsylva- To Albert's home, with shout and cymbal

nia.

throng:

Roused by their warlike pomp, and mirth, and The ambushed foeman's eye-his volley speeds, And Albert-Albert-falls! the dear old father

cheer,

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While, though the battle flash is faster driv'n,-Heaven's peace commiserate; for scarce I heed

Unawed, with eye unstartled by the blaze,

He for his bleeding country prays to Heav'n,Prays that the men of blood themselves may be forgiv'n.

XXIV.

Short time is now for gratulating speech:
And yet, beloved Gertrude, ere began
Thy country's flight, yon distant tow'rs to reach,
Looked not on thee the rudest partisan

With brow relaxed to love? And murmurs ran, As round and round their willing ranks they drew,

From beauty's sight to shield the hostile van.
Grateful, on them a placid look she threw,
Nor wept, but as she bade her mother's grave
adieu!

XXV.

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Go, Henry, go not back when I depart,

Past was the flight, and welcome seemed the The scene thy bursting tears too deep will move,

tow'r,

That like a giant standard-bearer, frowned
Defiance on the roving Indian pow'r.
Beneath, each bold and promontory mound
With embrasure embossed, and armour crowned,
And arrowy frieze, and wedged ravelin,
Wove like a diadem its tracery round
The lofty summit of that mountain green:
Here stood secure the group, and eyed a distant

scene.

XXVI.

A scene of death! where fires beneath the sun,
And blended arms, and white pavilions glow;
And for the business of destruction done,
Its requiem the war-horn seemed to blow:
There sad spectatress of her country's woe!
The lovely Gertrude, safe from present harm,
Had laid her cheek and clasped her hands of snow
On Waldegrave's shoulder, half within his arm
Enclosed, that felt her heart, and hushed its wild

alarm!

XXVII.

But short that contemplation-sad and short The pause to bid each much-loved scene adieu ! Beneath the very shadow of the fort,

Where friendly swords were drawn, and banners

flew;

Ah! who could deem that foot of Indian crew Was near-yet there, with lust of murd'rous deeds,

Gleamed, like a basalisk, from woods in view,

Where my dear father took thee to his heart,
And Gertrude thought it ecstacy to rove
With thee, as with an angel, through the grove
Of peace, imagining her lot was cast

And must this parting be our very last?

In heaven; for ours was not like earthly love.

No! I shall love thee still, when death itself is past.

XXXI.

"Half could I bear, methinks, to leave this earth,

And thee, more loved than aught beneath the

sun,

If I had lived to smile but on the birth

Of one dear pledge;-but shall there then be

none,

In future times-no gentle little one,
To clasp thy neck, and look, resembling me?
Yet seems it, ev'n while life's last pulses run,
A sweetness in the cup of death to be,
Lord of my bosom's love! to die beholding
thee!"

XXXII. Hushed were his Gertrude's lips! but still their bland

And beautiful expression seemed to melt
With love that could not die! and still his hand
She presses to the heart no more that felt.
Ah, heart! where once each fond affection dwelt
And features yet that spoke a soul more fair.
Mute, gazing, agonizing as he knelt,

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