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Long love the arts, the glories which adorn
Those fields of freedom where your sires were born.
Oh! if America can yet be great,
If neither chained by choice, nor damned by fate
To the mob-mania which imbrutes her now,
She yet can raise the bright but temperate brow
Of single majesty, can grandly place
An empire's pillar upon freedom's base,
Nor fear the mighty shaft will feebler prove
For the fair capital that flowers above :-
If yet, released from all that vulgar throng,
So vain of dulness and so pleased with wrong,
Who hourly teach her, like themselves, to hide
Folly in froth, and barrenness in pride,
She yet can rise, can wreathe the Attic charms
Of soft refinement round the pomp of arms,
And see her poets flash the fires of song,
To light her warriors' thunderbolts along !
It is to you, to souls that favouring Heaven
Has made like yours, the glorious task is given.
Oh! but for such, Columbia's days were done;
Rank without ripeness, quickened without sun,
Crude at the surface, rotten at the core,
Her fruits would fall, before her spring were o'er !

Believe me, Spencer, while I winged the hours
Where Schuylkill undulates through banks of flowers,
Though few the days, the happy evenings sew,
So warm with heart, so rich with mind they flew,
That my full soul forgot its wish to roam,
And rested there, as in a dream of home!
And looks I met, like looks I loved before,
And voices too, which as they trembled o'er
The chord of memory, found full many a tone
Of kindness there in concord with their own!
Oh! we had nights of that communion free,
That Aush of heart, which I have known with thee
So oft, so warmly; nights of mirth and mind,
Of whims that taught, and follies that refined !
When shall we both renew them ? when, restored
To the pure feast and intellectual board,
Shall I once more enjoy with thee and thine
Those whims that teach, those follies that refine?
Even now, as, wandering upon Erie's shore,
I hear Niagara's distant cataract roar,
I sigh for England-oh! these weary feet
Have many a mile to journey, ere we meet !

A WARNING TO
OH! fair as heaven and chaste as light!
Did Nature mould thee al' so bright,

That thou shouldst ever learn to weep
O'er languid virtue's fatal sleep,
('er shame extinguished, honour fled,
Peace lost, heart withered, feeling dead ?
No, no! a star was born with thee,
Which sheds eternal purity!
Thou hast, within those sainted eyes,
So sair a transcript of the skies,
In lines of fire such heavenly lore,
That man should read them and adore !
Yet have I known a gentle maid
Whose early charms were just arrayed
In Nature's loveliness like thine,
And wore that clear celestial sign
Which seems to mark the brow that's fair
For destiny's peculiar care ;
Whose bosom, too, was once a zone,
Where the bright gem of virtue shone ;
Whose eyes were talismans of fire
Against the spell of man's desire ;
Yet, hapless girl, in one sad hour,
Her charms have shed their radiant flower;
The gem has been beguiled away;
Her eyes have lost their chastening ray;
The simple fear, the guiltless shame,
The smiles that from reflection came,
All, all have fled, and left her mind
A faded monument behind !
Like some wave-beaten, mouldering stone,
To memory raised by hands unknown,
Which, many a wintry hour, has stood
Beside the ford of Tyra's flood,
To tell the traveller, as he crossed,
That there some loved friend was lost!
Oh! 'twas a sight I wept to see-
Heaven keep the lost one's fate from thee!

TO "Tis time, I feel, to leave thee now,

While yet my soul is something free; While yet those dangerous eyes allow

One moment's thought to stray from thee! Oh! thou art every instant dearer

Every chance that brings me nigh thee
Brings my ruin nearer, nearer,

I am lost, unless I fly thee!
Nay, if thou dost not scorn and hate me,

Wish me not so soon to fall;
Duties, fame, and hopes await me, -

Oh! that eye would blast them all !

Yes, yes, it would—for thou’rt as cold

As ever yet allured or swayed, And wouldst without a sigh behold

The ruin which thyself had made ! Yet-could I think that, truly fond,

That eye but once would smile on me, Good Heaven ! how much, how far beyond

Fame, duty, hope, that smile would be ! Oh ! but to win it, night and day,

Inglorious at thy feet reclined, I'd sigh my dreams of fame away,

The world for thee forgot, resigned : But no, no, no-farewell—we part,

Never to meet, no, never, never-O woman ! what a mind and heart

Thy coldness has undone for ever!

FROM THE HIGH-PRIEST OF APOLLO TO A

VIRGIN OF DELPHI.
Cum digno digna .

Sulpicia
“Who is the maid, with golden hair,
With eyes of fire and feet of air,
Whose harp around my altar swells,
The sweetest of a thousand shells ? "
'Twas thus the deity who treads
The arch of heaven, and grandly sheds
Day from his eyelids—thus he spoke,
As through my cell his glories broke.
“Who is the maid, with golden hair,
With eyes of fire and feet of air,
Whose harp around my altar swells,
The sweetest of a thousand shells ? *
Aphelia is the Delphic fair,
With eyes of fire and golden hair,
Aphelia's are the airy feet,
And ners the harp divinely sweet ;
For foot so light has never trod
The laurelled caverns of the god,
Nor harp so soft has ever given
I strain to earth or sigh to heaven!
“Then tell the virgin to unfold,
In looser pomp, her locks of gold,
And bid those eyes with fonder fire
Be kindled for a god's desire ;

!

Since he who lights the path of years-
Even from the fount of morning's tears,
To where his setting splendours burn
Upon the western sea-maid's urn-
Cannot, in all his course, behold
Such eyes of fire, such hair of gold !
Tell her, he comes, in blissful pride,
His lip yet sparkling with the tide
That mantles in Olympian bowls,
The nectar of eternal souls !
For her, for her he quits the skies,
And to her kiss from nectar flies.
Oh! he would hide his wreath of rays,
And leave the world to pine for days,
Might he but pass the hours of shade
Imbosomed by his Delphic maid ;
She more than earthly woman blest,
He more than god on woman's breast."
There is a cave beneath the steep,
Where living rills of crystal weep
O’ur herbage of the loveliest hue
That ever spring begemmed with dew.
There oft the green bank's glossy tint
Is brightened by the amorous print
Of many a saun and naiad's form,
That still upon the dew is warm,
When virgins come, at peep of day,
To kiss the sod where lovers lay.

There, there," the god, imp ned, said,
“Soon as the twilight tinge is fled,
And the dim orb of lunar souls
Along its shadowy pathway rolls-
There shall we find our bridal bed;
And ne'er did rosy rapture spread,
Not even in Jove's voluptuous bowers
A bridal bed so blest as ours !

"Tell the imperial god, who reigns
Sublime in oriental fanes,
Whose towering turrets paint their pride
Upon Euphrates' pregnant tide;
Tell him, when to his midnight loves
In mystic majesty ho moves,
Lighted by many an odorous fire,
And hymned by all Chaldæa's choir-
Oh! tell the godhead to confess,
The pompous joy delights him less
(Even though his mighty arms enfold
A priestess on a couch of gold)
Than when, in love's unholier prank,
By moonlight cave or rustic bank,

1

Upon his neck some wood-nymph lies,
Exhaling from her lip and eyes
The flame and incense of delight,
To sanctify a dearer rite,
A mystery more divinely warmed
Than priesthood ever yet performed !"
Happy the maid whom Heaven allows
To break for Heaven her virgin vows!
Happy the maid !-her robe of shame
Is whitened by a heavenly flame,
Whose glory, with a lingering trace,
Shines through and deifies her race !
O virgin! what a doom is thine!
To-night, to-night a lip divine
In every kiss shall stamp on thee
A seal of immortality!
Fly to the cave, Aphelia, fly ;
There lose the world and wed the sky!
There all the boundless rapture steal
Which gods can give or woman seel !

WOMAN.
Away, away-you're all the same,

A fluttering, smiling, jilting throng!
Oh! by my soul I burn with shame,

To think I've been your slave so long!
Slow to be warmed and quick to rove,

From folly kind, from cunning loth,
Too cold for bliss, too weak for love,

Yet feigning all that's best in both.
Still panting o'er a crowd to reign,

More joy it gives to woman's breast
To make ten frigid coxcombs vain

Than one true manly lover blest!
Away, away-your smile's a curse-

Oh! blot me from the race of men,
Kind, pitying Heaven ! by death or worse,

Before I love such things again!

BALLAD STANZAS.
I KNEW, by the smoke that so gracefully curled

Above the green elms, that a cottage was near,
And I said, “If there's peace to be found in the world,

A heart that was humble might hope for it here!”

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