Amid yon glowing streak thy transient beam,
A long, a last farewell! Seasons have changed,
Ages and empires roll'd, like smoke, away,
But thou, unalter'd, beamest as silver fair
As on thy birthnight! Bright and watchful eyes,
From palaces and bowers, have hail'd thy gem
With secret transport! Natal star of love,
And souls that love the shadowy hour of fancy,
How much I owe thee, how I bless thy ray!
How oft thy rising o'er the hamlet green,
Signal of rest, and social converse sweet,
Beneath some patriarchal tree, has cheer'd
The peasant's heart, and drawn his benison !
Pride of the west! beneath thy placid light
The tender tale shall never more be told,
Man's soul shall never wake to joy again:
Thou sett'st forever,-lovely orb, farewell!"
Low warblings, now, and solitary harps Were heard among the angels, touch'd and tuned As to an evening hymn, preluding soft To cherub voices; louder as they swell'd, Deep strings struck in, and hoarser instruments, Mix'd with clear, silver sounds, till concord rose Full as the harmony of winds to heaven; Yet sweet as nature's springtide melodies To some worn pilgrim, first with glistening eyes Greeting his native valley, whence the sounds Of rural gladness, herds, and bleating flocks, The chirp of birds, blithe voices, lowing kine, The dash of waters, reed, or rustic pipe, Blent with the dulcet, distance-mellow'd bell, Come, like the echo of his early joys. In every pause, from spirits in mid air, Responsive still were golden viols heard, And heavenly symphonies stole faintly down.
Calm, deep, and silent was the tide of joy
That roll'd o'er all the blessed; visions of bliss,
Rapture too mighty, swell'd their hearts to bursting;
Prelude to heaven it seem'd, and in their sight
Celestial glorics swam. How fared, alas!
That other band? Sweet to their troubled minds
The solemn scene; ah! doubly sweet the breeze
Refreshing, and the purple light to eyes
But newly oped from that benumbing sleep
Whose dark and drear abode no cheering dream,
No bright-hued vision ever enters, souls
For ages pent, perhaps, in some dim world
Where guilty spectres stalk the twilight gloom.
For, like the spirit's last seraphic smile,
The earth, anticipating now her tomb,
To rise, perhaps, as heaven magnificent,
Appear'd Hesperian: gales of gentlest wing
Came fragrance-laden, and such odours shed
As Yemen never knew, nor those blest isles
In Indian seas, where the voluptuous breeze
The peaceful native breathes, at eventide,
From nutmeg groves and bowers of cinnamon.
How solemn on their ears the choral note
Swell'd of the angel hymn! so late escaped
The cold embraces of the grave, whose damp
Silence no voice or string'd instrument
Has ever broke! Yet with the murmuring breeze
Full sadly chimed the music and the song,
For with them came the memory of joys
Forever past, the stinging thought of what
They once had been, and of their future lot.
To their grieved view the passages of earth
Delightful rise, their tender ligaments
So dear, they heeded not an after state,
Though by a fearful judgment usher'd in.
A bridegroom fond, who lavish'd all his heart
On his beloved, forgetful of the Man
Of many Sorrows, who, for him, resign'd
His meek and spotless spirit on the cross,
Has marked among the blessed bands, array'd
Celestial in a spring of beauty, doom'd
No more to fade, the charmer of his soul,
Her cheek soft blooming like the dawn in heaven.
He recollects the days when on his smile
She lived; when, gently leaning on his breast,
Tears of intense affection dimm'd her eyes,
Of dove-like lustre.-Thoughtless, now, of him
And earthly joys, eternity and heaven
Engross her soul.-What more accursed pang
Can hell inflict? With her, in realms of light,
In never-dying bliss, he might have roll'd
Eternity away; but now, forever
Torn from his bride new-found, with cruel fiends,
Or men like fiends, must waste and weep. Now, now
He mourns with burning, bitter drops his days
Misspent, probation lost, and heaven despised.
Such thoughts from many a bursting heart drew
forth
Groans, lamentations, and despairing shrieks,
That on the silent air came from afar.
As, when from some proud capital that crowns
Imperial Ganges, the reviving breeze
Sweeps the dank mist, or hoary river fog
Impervious mantled o'er her highest towers,
Bright on the eye rush BRAHMA's temples, capp'd
With spiry tops, gay-trellised minarets,
Pagods of gold, and mosques with burnish'd domes,
Gilded, and glistening in the morning sun,
So from the hill the cloudy curtains roll'd,
And, in the lingering lustre of the eve,
Again the SAVIOUR and his seraphs shone.
Emitted sudden in his rising, flash'd
Intenser light, as toward the right hand host
Mild turning, with a look ineffable,
The invitation he proclaim'd in accents
Which on their ravish'd ears pour'd thrilling, like
The silver sound of many trumpets heard
Afar in sweetest jubilee; then, swift
Stretching his dreadful sceptre to the left,
That shot forth horrid lightnings, in a voice
Clothed but in half its terrors, yet to them
Seem'd like the crush of heaven, pronounced the
doom.
The sentence utter'd, as with life instinct,
The throne uprose majestically slow;
Each angel spread his wings; in one dread swell
Of triumph mingling as they mounted, trumpets,
And harps, and golden lyres, and timbrels sweet,
And many a strange and deep-toned instrument
Of heavenly minstrelsy unknown on earth,
And angels' voices, and the loud acclaim
Of all the ransom'd, like a thunder-shout.
Far through the skies melodious echoes roll'd,
And faint hosannas distant climes return'd.
Down from the lessening multitude came faint
And fainter still the trumpet's dying peal,
All else in distance lost; when, to receive
Their new inhabitants, the heavens unfolded.
Up gazing, then, with streaming eyes, a glimpse
The wicked caught of Paradise, whence streaks
Of splendour, golden quivering radiance shone,
As when the showery evening sun takes leave,
Breaking a moment o'er the illumined world.
Seen far within, fair forms moved graceful by,
Slow-turning to the light their snowy wings.
A deep-drawn, agonizing groan escaped
The hapless outcasts, when upon the LORD
The glowing portals closed. Undone, they stood
Wistfully gazing on the cold, gray heaven,
As if to catch, alas! a hope not there.
But shades began to gather; night approach'd
Murky and lowering: round with horror roll'à
On one another, their despairing eyes
That glared with anguish: starless, hopeless gloom
Fell on their souls, never to know an end.
Though in the far horizon linger'd yet
A lurid gleam, black clouds were mustering there;
Red flashes, follow'd by low muttering sounds,
Announced the fiery tempest doom'd to hurl
The fragments of the earth again to chaos.
Wild gusts swept by, upon whose hollow wing
Unearthly voices, yells, and ghastly peals
Of demon laughter came. Infernal shapes
Flitted along the sulphurous wreaths, or plunged
Their dark, impure abyss, as sea-fowl dive
Their watery element.-O'erwhelmed with sights
And sounds appalling, I awoke; and found
For gathering storms, and signs of coming wo,
The midnight moon gleaming upon my bed
Serene and peaceful. Gladly I survey'd her
Walking in brightness through the stars of heaven,
And blessed the respite ere the day of doom.
HADAD'S DESCRIPTION OF THE CITY
"TIS so;-the hoary harper sings aright; How beautiful is Zion!-Like a queen, Arm'd with a helm, in virgin loveliness, Her heaving bosom in a bossy cuirass, She sits aloft, begirt with battlements And bulwarks swelling from the rock, to guard The sacred courts, pavilions, palaces,
Soft gleaming through the umbrage of the woods
Which tuft her summit, and, like raven tresses,
Waved their dark beauty round the tower of
David.
Resplendent with a thousand golden bucklers,
The embrasures of alabaster shine;
Hail'd by the pilgrims of the desert, bound
To Judah's mart with orient merchandise.
But not, for thou art fair and turret-crown'd.
Wet with the choicest dew of heaven, and bless'd
With golden fruits, and gales of frankincense,
Dwell I beneath thine ample curtains. Here,
Where saints and prophets teach, where the stern
law
Still speaks in thunder, where chief angels watch,
And where the glory hovers, here I war.
THE soul, my lord, is fashion'd-like the lyre.
Strike one chord suddenly, and others vibrate.
Your name abruptly mention'd, casual words
Of comment on your deeds, praise from your
uncle,
News from the armies, talk of your return,
A word let fall touching your youthful passion,
Suffused her cheek, call'd to her drooping eye
A momentary lustre; made her pulse
Leap headlong, and her bosom palpitate.
I could not long be blind, for love defies
Concealment, making every glance and motion,
Silence, and speech a tell-tale-
These things, though trivial of themselves, begat Suspicion. But long months elapsed,
Ere I knew all. She had, you know, a fever.
One night, when all were weary and at rest,
I, sitting by her couch, tired and o'erwatch'd,
Thinking she slept, suffer'd my lids to close.
Waked by a voice, I found her never, Signor,
While life endures, will that scene fade from me,-
A dying lamp wink'd in the hearth, that cast,
And snatched the shadows. Something stood be-
In white. My flesh began to creep. I thought
I saw a spirit. It was my lady risen,
And standing in her night-robe with clasp'd hands,
Like one in prayer. Her pallid face display'd
Something, methought, surpassing mortal beauty.
She presently turn'd round, and fix'd her large,
wild eyes,
Brimming with tears, upon me, fetched a sigh,
As from a riven heart, and cried: "He's dead!
But, hush!-weep not,-I've bargain'd for his
soul,-
That's safe in bliss!"-Demanding who was dead,
Scarce yet aware she raved, she answer'd quick,
Her Cosmo, her beloved; for that his ghost,
All pale and gory, thrice had pass'd her bed.
With that, her passion breaking loose, my lord,
She pour'd her lamentation forth in strains
Pathetical beyond the reach of reason.
"Gone, gone, gone to the grave, and never knew
I loved him!"-I'd no power to speak, or move.-
I sat stone still,-a horror fell upon me.
At last, her little strength ebb'd out, she sank,
And lay, as in death's arms, till morning.
The terraced roof of ABSALOM's house by night; adorned with vases of flowers and fragrant shrubs; an awning over part of it. TAMAR and HADAD.
Tum. No, no, I well remember-proofs, you said, Unknown to Moses.
Hud. Well, my love, thou know'st
I've been a traveller in various climes;
Trod Ethiopia's scorching sands, and scaled
The snow-clad mountains; trusted to the deep;
Traversed the fragrant islands of the sea,
And with the wise conversed of many nations.
Tam. I know thou hast.
Had. Of all mine eyes have seen,
The greatest, wisest, and most wonderful
Is that dread sage, the Ancient of the Mountain.
Tim. Who?
Had. None knows his lineage, age, or name:
Are like the snows of Caucasus; his eyes
Beam with the wisdom of collected ages.
In green, unbroken years he sees, 'tis said,
The generations pass, like autumn fruits,
Garner'd, consumed, and springing fresh to life,
Again to perish, while he views the sun,
The seasons roll, in rapt serenity,
And high communion with celestial powers.
Some say 'tis SHEM, our father, some say ENOCH, And some MELCHISEDEK.
Tam. I've heard a tale
Like this, but ne'er believed it.
Had. I have proved it.
Through perils dire, dangers most imminent,
Seven days and nights, mid rocks and wildernesses,
And boreal snows, and never-thawing ice,
Where not a bird, a beast, a living thing,
Save the far-soaring vulture comes, I dared
My desperate way, resolved to know or perish.
Tam. Rash, rash adventurer!
Had. On the highest peak
Of stormy Caucasus there blooms a spot
On which perpetual sunbeams play, where flowers
And verdure never die; and there he dwells.
Tam. But didst thou see him?
Had. Never did I view
Such awful majesty: his reverend locks
Hung like a silver mantle to his feet;
His raiment glistered saintly white, his brow
Rose like the gate of Paradise; his mouth
Was musical as its bright guardians' songs.
Tum. What did he tell thee? O! what wisdom
fell
From lips so hallow'd?
Had. Whether he possesses
The Tetragrammaton-the powerful name Inscribed on Moses' rod, by which he wrought Unheard-of wonders, which constrains the heavens To shower down blessings, shakes the earth, and
The strongest spirits; or if God hath given A delegated power, I cannot tell.
Vaults set with gems the purchase of a crown,
Blazing with lustre past the noontide beam,
Or, with a milder beauty, mimicking
The mystic signs of changeful Mazzaroth.
Tam. Unheard-of splendour!
Had. There they dwell, and muse,
And wander; beings beautiful, immortal,
Minds vast as heaven, capacious as the sky,
Whose thoughts connect past, present, and to come,
And glow with light intense, imperishable.
Thus, in the sparry chambers of the sea
And air-pavilions, rainbow tabernacles,
They study nature's secrets, and enjoy
poor dominion.
Tam. I know that they were made to rule the night.
Had. Like palace lamps! Thou echoest well thy grandsire.
Woman! the stars are living, glorious,
Amazing, infinite!
Tam. Speak not so wildly.
I know them numberless, resplendent, set
As symbols of the countless, countless years
That make eternity.
O! mighty, glorious, miserable thought!
Had ye endured like those great sufferers,
Like them, seen ages, myriad ages roll;
Could ye but look into the void abyss
With eyes experienced, unobscured by torments,
Then mightst thou name it, name it feelingly.
Tam. What ails thee, HADAD? Draw me not so close.
Had. TAMAR! I need thy love-more than thy love
Tam. Thy cheek is wet with tears-Nay, let us "Tis late-I cannot, must not linger. [part[Breaks from him, and exit.
Had. Loved and abhorr'd! Still, still accursed! [He paces twice or thrice up and down, with passionate gestures; then turns his face to the sky, and stands a moment in silence.] O! where,
In the illimitable space, in what
Profound of untried misery, when all
His worlds, his rolling orbs of light, that fill
With life and beauty yonder infinite,
Their radiant journey run, forever set,
Where, where, in what abyss shall I be groaning?
HERE let me pause, and breathe a while, and wipe These servile drops from off my burning brow. Amidst these venerable trees, the air
Seems hallow'd by the breath of other times.—
Companions of my fathers! ye have mark'd
Their generations pass. Your giant arms
Shadow'd their youth, and proudly canopied
Their silver hairs, when, ripe in years and glory,
These walks they trod to meditate on heaven.
What warlike pageants have ye seen! what trains
Of captives, and what heaps of spoil! what pomp,
When the victorious chief, war's tempest o'er,
In Warkworth's bowers unbound his panoply!
What floods of splendour, bursts of jocund din,
Startled the slumbering tenants of these shades,
When night awoke the tumult of the feast,
The song of damsels, and the sweet-toned lyre.
Then, princely PERCY reigned amidst his halls,
Champion, and judge, and father of the north.
O, days of ancient grandeur! are ye gone?
Forever gone? Do these same scenes behold
His offspring here, the hireling of a foe?
O, that I knew my fate! that I could read
The destiny which Heaven has mark'd for me!
CHARLES SPRAGUE was born in Boston, on the twenty-sixth day of October, in 1791. His father, who still survives, was one of that celebrated band who, in 1773, resisted taxation by pouring the tea on board several British ships into the sea.
Mr. SPRAGUE was educated in the schools of his native city, which he left at an early period to acquire in a mercantile house a practical knowledge of trade. When he was about twenty-one years of age, he commenced the business of a merchant on his own account, and continued in it, I believe, until he was elected cashier of the Globe Bank, one of the first establishments of its kind in Massachusetts. This office he now holds, and he has from the time he accepted it discharged its duties in a faultless manner, notwithstanding the venerable opinion that a poet must be incapable of successfully transacting practical affairs. this period he has found leisure to study the works of the greatest authors, and particularly those of the masters of English poetry, with which, probably, very few contemporary writers are more familiar; and to write the admirable poems on which is based his own reputation.
The first productions of Mr. SPRAGUE which attracted much attention, were a series of brilliant prologues, the first of which was written for the Park Theatre, in New York, in 1821. Prize theatrical addresses are proverbially among the most worthless compositions in the poetic form. Their brevity and peculiar character prevents the development in them of original conceptions and striking ideas, and they are usually made up of commonplace thoughts and images, compounded with little skill. Those by Mr. SPRAGUE are certainly among the best of their kind, and some passages in them are conceived in the true spirit of poetry. The following lines are from the one recited at the opening of a theatre in Philadelphia, in 1822.
"To grace the stage, the bard's careering mind
Seeks other worlds, and leaves his own behind;
He lures from air its bright, unprison'd forms,
Breaks through the tomb, and Death's dull region storms,
O'er ruin'd realms he pours creative day,
And slumbering kings his mighty voice obey.
From its damp shades the long-laid spirit walks,
And round the murderer's bed in vengeance stalks.
Poor, maniac Beauty brings her cypress wreath,-
Her smile a moonbeam on a blasted heath;
Round some cold grave she comes, sweet flowers to strew,
And, lost to Heaven, still to love is true.
Hate shuts his soul when dove-eyed Mercy pleads;
Power lifts his axe, and Truth's bold service bleeds;
Remorse drops anguish from his burning eyes,
Feels hell's eternal worm, and, shuddering, dies;
War's trophied minion, too, forsakes the dust,
Grasps his worn shield, and waves his sword of rust,
Springs to the slaughter at the trumpet's call,
Again to conquer, or again to fall."
The ode recited in the Boston theatre, at a pageant in honour of SHAKSPEARE, in 1823, is one
of the most vigorous and beautiful lyrics in the English language. The first poet of the world, the greatness of his genius, the vast variety of his scenes and characters, formed a subject well fitted for the flowing and stately measure chosen by our author, and the universal acquaintance with the writings of the immortal dramatist enables every one to judge of the merits of his composition. Though to some extent but a reproduction of the creations of SHAKSPEARE, it is such a reproduction as none but a man of genius could effect.
The longest of Mr. SPRAGUE's poems is entitled Curiosity." It was delivered before the Phi Beta Kappa Society, at Cambridge, in August, 1829. It is in the heroic measure, and its diction is faultless. The subject was happily chosen, and admitted of a great variety of illustrations. The descriptions of the miser, the novel-reader, and the father led by curiosity to visit foreign lands, are among the finest passages in Mr. SPRAGUE's writings. "Curiosity" was published in Calcutta a few years ago, as an original work by a British officer, with no other alterations than the omission of a few American names, and the insertion of others in their places, as Scort for COOPER, and CHALMERS for CHANNING; and in this form it was reprinted in London, where it was much praised in some of the critical gazettes.
The poem delivered at the centennial celebration of the settlement of Boston, contains many spirited passages, but it is not equal to "Curiosity" or "The Shakspeare Ode." Its versification is easy and various, but it is not so carefully finished as most of Mr. SPRAGUE'S productions. "The Winged Worshippers," "Lines on the Death of M. S. C.," "The Family Meeting," "Art," and several other short poems, evidence great skill in the use of language, and show him to be a master of the poetic art. They are all in good taste; they are free from turgidness; and are pervaded by a spirit of good sense, which is unfortunately wanting in much of the verse written in this age.
Mr. SPRAGUE has written, besides his poems, an essay on drunkenness, and an oration, pronounced at Boston on the fiftieth anniversary of the declaration of independence; and I believe he contributed some papers to the "New England Magazine," while it was edited by his friend J. T. BUCKINGHAM. The style of his prose is florid and much less carefully finished than that of his poetry.
He mixes but little in society, and, I have been told, was never thirty miles from his native city. His leisure hours are passed among his books; with the few "old friends, the tried, the true," who travelled with him up the steeps of manhood; or in the quiet of his own fireside. His poems show the strength of his domestic and social affections.
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