From our babes we turned away,
Poland call'd us,-could we stay?
-We, on Praga's fatal field
Saw her ancient glery yield,
Polish blood fell down like rain,
Russia triumph'd--'twas in vain.
Wanderers from our land of birth,
Pilgrims on this stranger earth,
Might our friends, our children dear,
Find a peaceful refuge here,
Might they 'neath your glorious sky
Taste of freedom ere they die,
Breathe for you the patriot prayer,
-This would save us from despair.
Hartford, Nov. 1832.
BE ye hush'd every toil!--and each turbulent motion,
That encircles the heart in its treacherous snares;
And the hour that invites to the calm of devotion
Undisturb'd by regret-unincumber'd with cares.
How cheerless the late blooming face of creation!
Weary Time seems to rest in his rapid career;
And pausing awhile midst his own desolation,
Looks exultingly back-on the grave of the year.
Hark! the blast whistles loud-and the shadows are closing,
That inwrap his broad path in the mantle of night;
While pleasure's gay sons are securely reposing,
Undisınay'd at the wrecks that have number'd his flight.
From yon temple where Fashion's bright torches are lighted, Her vo'tries in throngs, crown'd with garlands appear; And (as yet their warm hopes by no spectres affrighted) Assemble to dance-round the grave of the year.
Oh! I hate the stale banquet the triflers have tasted
When I think on the ills of life's comfortless day;
How the flowers of my childhood their verdure have wasted,
And the friends of my youth have been stolen away.
They know not how vain is the warmest endeavor,
To woo the kind moments, so slighted when near;
When the hours that Oblivion has cancell'd forever,
Her hand has entomb'd in the grave of the year.
Since the last solemn reign of this day of reflection,
What crowds have resign'd life's ephemeral breath!
How many have shed their last tear of dejection,
And clos'd the dim eye in the darkness of death!
How many have sudden their pilgrimage ended,
Beneath the sad pall that now covers their bier;
Or, to death's lonesome valley have gently descended,
And found their last beds-with the grave of the year.
'Tis the year that so late, its new promise disclosing Rose bright on the happy-the careless and gayWho now on their pillows cf dust are reposing,
Where the sod presses cold on their bosoms of clay
Then talk not of bliss-while her smile is expiring'
Disappointment still drowns it in misery's tear,
Reflect and be wise; for the dawn is retiring,
And to-morrow will dawn-on the grave of a year.
Ah! trust not the gleam of life's perishing taper,
So faintly that shines o'er the wanderer's head;
"Twill expire-when no sun may dispell the dark vapor,
No dawn of the morning revisit thy bed.
As breaks the white foam on the boisterous billow,
So the visions of pleasure and hope disappear;
Like night winds that moan through the boughs of the willow,
Or those shades that now meet--round the grave of the year.
Yet awhile and around us no seasons will flourish,
But Silence for each her dark mansion prepare;
Where beauty no longer her roses shall nourish,
Nor the lilly o'erspread the wan cheek of despair!
But the eye shall with lustre unfading be brighten'd,
When it wakes to true bliss in yon orient sphere:
By sun beams of splendor immortal enlighten'd
Never more to go down-on the grave of the year!
Where's the man who seeks for fame?
Haste!--the laurel give him---
Unfold the scroll and write his name,
'Tis all the grave will give him!
Where is he that toils for gold?
Give!---let nought alloy it-
When a few brief days are told,
No more can he enjoy it!
Where's the bosom swells with pride?
Spare! I would not wound it---
For death shall twine at even-tide
His mean, scant garment round it!
Where's the heart on pleasure bent?
Pour---a double measure---
Health and life's to-morrow spent---
Gone will be the treasure!
Where's the soul that looks above
Pleasure, gold and glory---
Such as earthly passions move-
Such as live in story?
Take each cup of joy away,
To others filled and given---
Oh, what are all these baubles---say---
To him whose home is---HEAVEN!
THE human mind-that lofty thing!.
The palace and the throne
Where awful reason sits as king,
And breathes his judgment tone-
O! who, with fragile step, shall trace
The borders of that haunted place,
Nor, in his weakness, own
That mystery and marvel bind
That lofty thing, the human mind!
Seck not her thousand thoughts to tell ;
There essence who may know?
Ask not her fancies where they dwell
Her visions how they glow.
All soft and beautiful they come;
They dream of rest and call it homes
Ah! mark not where they go!
Enough that, while their light they pour,
We love the life we loathed before.
The human heart-that restless thing!
The tempter, and the tried;
The haughty, yet the suffering;
The child of pain and pride;
The buoyant, and the desolate;
The home of love, the lair of hate;
Self-stung, self-deified!-
Yet do we bless thee as thou art,
Thou restless thing-the human heart!
And wherefore bless thee?-O there lies
A spell and pow'r in thee,
And in the torment of thy sighs
Disguised hope we see.
Yet though the golden fruit be gone,
Which once in its own lusture shone
On Passion's fragrant tree,
Its shade is still divinely sweet,
And facinates the lingerin feet.
The human soul-that holy thing!
The silently sublime;
The angel sleeping on the wing,
Worn with the scoffs of time:
The beautiful, the veil'd, the bound;
A prince enslaved; a victim crown'd;
The stricken in its prime !-
In tears-in tears to earth it stole-
That holy thing-the human soul!
Lo! shrined in her sacredness,
And breathing sainted air,
She calls on purity to bless
The presence-ball of prayer:
The dream is curtain'd in the shroud;
The rest is pillow'd on the cloud,
Her hope, her joy, are there;
And while she treads the mortal sod,
Her glorious eye is fix'd on God.
And this is Man!-Oh! ask of him-
The gifted, and forgiven-
When o'er the landscape, drear and dim,
The wreck of storms is driven,
If pride or passion, in their power,
Can chain the tide, or charm the hour,
Or stand in place of heaven;
He bends the brow, he bows the knee-
"Creator-Father--none but thee !"
Look upon the rainbow, and praise him that made it: very beautiful it is in the brightness thereof; and the hands of the Most High have bended it.-Ecclesiasticus, chap. 43,
He hath lit up the sky with His thousand rays,
And spread forth His arch mid the sun's bright blaze:
He hath spanned the waves with His glorious bow,
And dyed with its colours the ships below.
He hath look'd on the clouds, and they've floated away:
He hath gilded the rocks, and gemm'd them with spray:
He hath breath'd on the waters, and bid them be still:
He hath hush'd the broad waves with the word of His will.
He hath open'd the heaven's, He hath sent forth his showers,
To gladden the field and the spring-starting flowers:
And now He hath gather'd the tears of the sky,
And spread them abroad, like smiles from on high.-H. T**y.
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