Go, hand in hand, to regions new and fair, In shapes and colours for the scene arrayed — With looks as bland and dear As charms, by glimpses, here. Receive divine commissions; follow-aid That crowns the advancing state Oh! as I think of you, at lonely night, Say to my heart, ye're blest, and I can bear my wo. HYMN. SIRE, Maker, Spirit, who alone canst know My soul, and all the deep remorse that's there I ask no mitigation of my wo; Yet pity me, and give me strength to bear! Remorse?-ah! not for ill designedly done: To look on pain, to me is pain severe; Yet, yet, dear forms which Death from me hath won, Had Love been Wisdom, haply were ye here! Much have I suffered; yet this form, unscathed, Declares thy kind protection, by its thrift: With secret dews the wounded plant is bathed; My ills are my desert, my good thy gift. Three years are flown since my sore heart bereft Beneath the marble where their relics lie. Yet no oblivious veil is o'er them cast: Blent with my blood, the sympathetic glow Burns brighter now their mortal lives are past, Than when, on earth, I felt their joy and wo. Oh! may their spirits, disembodied, come, And strong though secret influence dispensePitying the sorrows of an earthly doom, And smoothing pain with sweet beneficence. Oh! cover them with forms so made to meet In all the heaven of grateful ecstasy Methinks I see them, side by side, in love, L'ke brothers of the zodiac, all around Diffusing light and fragrance, as they move Harmonious as the spheric music's sound. And may these forms in warm and rosy sleep, (In some fair dwelling for such forms assigned,) Lie, while o'er air, earth, sea, their spirits sweep, Quick as the changeful glance of thought and mind. This fond ideal which my grief relieves, Father, beneath thy throne may live, may be: For more than all my feeble sense conceives, Thy hand can give in blest reality. Sire, Maker, Spirit! source of all that's fair! THE MOON OF FLOWERS. Он, moon of flowers! sweet moon of flowers!* Oh, moon of flowers! thou moon of flowers! Oh, moon of flowers! oh, moon of flowers! In scenes afar were passed those hours, Which still with fond regret I see, And wish my heart could change like thee' *The savages of the northern part of America sometimes count by moons. May they call the moon of flowers. TO NIAGARA. Here, 'neath the azure dome of heaven, ye 're wed; Terrific, but, oh, beautiful abyss! If I should trust my fascinated eye, Sense, form, would spring to meet thy white foam's kiss, Colour, depth, height, extension - all unite To chain the spirit by a look intense! The dolphin in his clearest seas, or thence Ta'en, for some queen, to deck of ivory white, Dies not in changeful tints more delicately bright. Look, look! there comes, o'er yon pale green expanse, Beyond the curtain of this altar vast, A glad young swan; the smiling beams that cast Light from her plumes, have lured her soft advance; She nears the fatal brink: her graceful life has past! Look up! nor her fond, foolish fate disdain: An eagle rests upon the wind's sweet breath; Feels he the charm? woos he the scene beneath? He eyes the sun; nerves his dark wing again; Remembers clouds and storms, yet flies the lovely death. "Niagara! wonder of this western world, And half the world beside! hail, beauteous queen Of cataracts!"-an angel, who had been O'er heaven and earth, spoke thus, his bright wings furled, And knelt to Nature first,-on this wild cliff unseen. SONG. DAY, in melting purple dying, Ye but waken my distress; Thou, to whom I love to hearken, Save thy toiling, spare thy treasure: Gifts and gold are naught to me, Tell to thee the high-wrought feeling, Yet but torture, if comprest Absent still! Ah! come and bless me ! In a look if death there be, FRIENDSHIP. To meet a friendship such as mine, Looks are its food, its nectar sighs, Though Friendship be its earthly name, Him let it view not, or it dies A charm o'er every object plays; All looks so lovely, while it stays, So softly forth in rosier tides The vital flood extatic glides, Fratello del mio cor. That, wrung by grief to see it part A very life-drop leaves the heart: Such drop, I need not tell thee, fell, While bidding it, for thee, farewell! Fratello del mio cor. PRAYER. SIRE of the universe-and me Dost thou reject my midnight prayer! Dost thou withhold me even from thee, Thus writhing, struggling 'gainst despair! Thou knowest the source of feeling's gush, Thou knowest the end for which it flows: Then, if thou bid'st the tempest rush, Ah! heed the fragile bark it throws! Fain would my heaving heart be still- And kiss the barb that tears my breast. But ah! thy succour is delayed. The burning, beauteous orb of day, Amid its circling host upborne, Smiles, as life quickens in its ray; What would it, were thy hand withdrawn!Scorch-devastate the teeming whole Now glowing with its warmth divine; Spirit, whose powers of peace control Great Nature's heart, oh! pity mine! Extracts from Zophiel. With unassured yet graceful step advancing, Over the strange attire that well became such form. The sandals on her silvery feet were blue; Of saffron tint her robe, as when young day Spreads softly o'er the heavens, and tints the trembling dew. Light was that robe as mist; and not a gem In shapely guise about the waist confined, Half floated, waving in their length behind; Was deck'd with rows of pearls, and sapphire's azure too. The sweet acacia's blossoms; just as live And pendent, sometimes touch'd her neck; and there He who beheld her hand forgot her face; Yet in that face was all beside forgot; And he who, as she went, beheld her pace, And locks profuse, had said. "Nay, turn thee not." Placed on a banquet couch beside the king, 'Mid many a sparkling guest no eye forbore; But, like their darts, the warrior princes fling Such looks as seem'd to pierce, and scan her o'er and o'er; Nor met alone the glare of lip and eye — Charms, but not rare: the gazer stern and cool, But that was only when she smiled, and when MELES AND EGLA CONTRASTED. In their contrasted loveliness: her height He, cast in manliest mould, with ringlets murk as night. And oft her drooping and resigned blue eye She'd wistful raise to read his radiant face; To poison mortal joy with sense of coming ill. To make the only hope that soothed him vain: Oh, transport! Zophiel was the name she breathed, MORNING. How beauteous art thou, O thou morning sun!- The rays that glance about his silken hair; And Luxury hangs her amber lamps, to match Thy face, when turn'd away from bower and palace fair Sweet to the lip the draught, the blushing fruit: Music and perfumes mingle with the soul; How thrills the kiss, when feeling's voice is mute! Yet each keen sense were dulness but for thee: But comes to pay new homage to thy charms. Yet, when his slumbering harp he feels thee woo, The pleasured bard pours forth another song, And finds in thee, like love, a theme for ever new. Thy dark-eyed daughters come in beauty forth, In thy near realms; and, like their snow-wreaths fair, The bright-hair'd youths and maidens of the north Smile in thy colours when thou art not there. 'Tis there thou bid'st a deeper ardor glow, And higher, purer reveries completest; As drops that farthest from the ocean flow, Refining all the way, from springs the sweetest. Haply, sometimes, spent with the sleepless night, Some wretch, impassion'd, from sweet morning's breath, Turns his hot brow, and sickens at thy light; But Nature, ever kind, soon heals or gives him death. AMBITION. Wo to thee, wild Ambition! I employ Despair's low notes thy dread effects to tell: Born in high heaven, her peace thou could'st destroy, And, but for thee, there had not been a hell. Through the celestial domes thy clarion peal'd; Angels, entranced, beneath thy banners ranged, And straight were fiends; hurl'd from the shrinking field, They waked in agony to wail the change. Darting through all her veins, the subtle fire, The world's fair mistress first inhaled thy breath; To lot of higher beings learn'd to aspire; Dared to attempt, and doom'd the world to death. The thousand wild desires, that still torment The fiercely struggling soul where peace once dwelt, Scarce o'er the silly bird in state were he, Fame ne'er had roused, nor Song her records kept, Now see them mark with death his victim's strife. Man found thee, Death: but Death and dull Decay Battling, by aid of thee, his mastery proves; By mighty works he swells his narrow day, And reigns, for ages, on the world he loves. Yet what the price? With stings that never cease, Thou goad'st him on; and, when too keen the smart, His highest dole he'd barter but for peace Food thou wilt have, or feast upon his heart. VIRTUE. Virtue! how many, as a lowly thing, Born of weak folly, scorn thee! but thy name Alone they know; upon thy soaring wing They'd fear to mount; nor could thy sacred flame Burn in their baser hearts: the biting thorn, The flinty crag, flowers hiding, strew thy field; Yet blest is he whose daring bides the scorn Of the frail, easy herd, and buckles on thy shield. Who says thy ways are bliss, trolls but a lay To lure the infant: if thy paths, to view, Were always pleasant. Crime's worst sons would lay Their daggers at thy feet, and, from mere sloth, pursue. BROSSIER, MARTHA, A VERY remarkable woman, who pretended to be possessed by the devil, and came near causing great disorders in France, about the end of the sixteenth century. Her father was a weaver at Romozantin; but as Martha had the art of making a thousand distortions, he found it more profitable to ramble about with her, than to stay at home and mind his trade. Going from town to town, and showing his daughter, as a woman possessed by the devil, and needing the exorcism of the church, a great number of people resorted to him. The cheat was discovered at Orleans, in 1598, and all the priests of that diocese were forbidden to proceed to exorcisms on pain of excommunication. Nor was the bishop of Angiers more easily imposed on; for, having invited Martha to dinner, he caused holy water to be brought to her instead of common water, and common water instead of holy water. Martha was not at all affected when she drank the holy water, but made a great many distortions when the common water was handed to her. Upon this the prelate called for the book of Exorcisms, and read the beginning of the Æneid. Martha, supposing the Latin verses to be the exorcism, put herself into violent postures, as though she were tormented by the devil. The bishop, convinced that she was an imposter, reproved her father in private, and advised him to go back with her to Romozantin. But Brossier, on the contrary, carried Martha to Paris, as a better theatre for her to act on, where he hoped to be supported by the credulous, and those whom the edict of Nantes had lately exasperated against the king. He pitched upon the church of St. Genevieve to act his farce in, and it succeeded wonderfully. The capuchins took up the business, and the contortions she made while the exorcists were performing their office, easily persuaded the people that she was a real demoniac. The thing was quickly noised all over the city, and the bishop appointed five of the most famous physicians in Paris to examine into it; who unanimously reported, "that the devil had no hand in the matter, but that there was a great deal of imposture and some distemper in it." Two days after, two of the physicians seemed to waver; and before they answered the bishop, desired that the three others might be sent for, and time granted them till the next day. The trial came on, on the first of April, 1599, when father Seraphin renewed his exorcisms, and Martha her convulsions. She rolled her eyes, lolled out her tongue, and her whole body trembled; and when the priest uttered the words, "Et homo factus est" (and was made man), she fell down, and tossed herself from the altar to the door of the chapel. Upon this, the exorcist cried out, "That if any one persisted in his incredulity, he needed only to fight that devil, and try to conquer him, if he durst venture his life." Marescot, one of the five physicians, accepted the challenge, took Martha by the throat, and bade her stop. She obeyed, saying that the evil spirit had left her, which father Seraphin confirmed; but Marescot insisted that he had frightened the devil away. People were divided in their opinions about this woman, many believing her to be really a demoniac. At length, there being fears that she might cause a sedition, under pretence of the edict granted to the Protestants, Henry IV. enjoined the parliament of Paris to use their authority; upon which the parliament ordered her to be confined. She was kept in prison for forty days; during which time the best physicians examined her, and asserted that there was nothing supernatural in her case. In the mean time, the priests protested against this proceeding, saying that it was an encroachment on the privileges of the church, suggested by the heretics, and they were not silenced without much difficulty. On the 27th of May, Brossier was sent with his daughter to Romozantin, and forbidden to allow her to go abroad, without consent of the judge, under pain of corporal punishment. However, the father and daughter went, under the sanction and protection of Alexander de la Rochefoucauld, abbot of St. Martin's, into Auvergne, and to Avignon. The parliament of Paris summoned the abbot twice, and at last ordered that the revenues of his benefice should be seized for contempt of court; nevertheless, these people went to Rome. The bishop of Clermont, brother to the abbot, was suspected of having suggested this foolish undertaking to his brother, and was also deprived of his ecclesiastical revenues. Henry IV. countermined them at Rome, so that the pope did nothing contrary to the sentence given by the parliament of Paris against the pretended demoniac. Not long after, the abbot died, it is said, of grief, for having undertaken so long a journey to make himself despised; and Martha and her father, forsaken by everybody, took refuge in the hospitals. BROWN, CATHERINE, WAS a half-blooded Cherokee, born at Willis Valley, in the state of Alabama, about the year 1800. Her father's name, in the Indian language, was Yau-nu-gung-yah-ski, which is, "drowned by a' bear." His English name, from his father, was John Brown. Her mother's name was Tsa-luh, in the Cherokee. Her English name was Sarah. They were people of property, and far above the level of their race, but still had no educationthey could not speak a word of English. In 1816, the American Board of Foreign Missions sent the Rev. Cyrus Kingsbury to the Cherokee nation, for permission to establish a school in their territory. This was granted, and a school opened at Chickamaugah, within the territory of Tennessee. Catherine had heard of the school, although living at the distance of a hundred miles. She had learned to speak English, by residing at the house of a Cherokee friend, and could read in words of one syllable. She was now seventeen years of age, possessing very fine features, and of roseate complexion. She was decidedly the first of Cherokee beauties. She was modest, gentle and virtuous, with a sweet and affectionate disposition. From her wealth and beauty, she had been indulged as the pride of her parents; but she was the most docile of all the missionary pupils. Her progress was wonderfully rapid. In three months, she learned to read and write. This exceeds the progress of any one on record, in this or any other country. She soon became serious, and then religious; and was baptized in January, 1818. In June, 1820, she undertook to teach a school at Creek-path, near her father's house. She showed the greatest zeal in the cause of enlightening her countrywomen; for those of all ages came to learn something of her. She established religious exercises in her father's house, and brought many | | to Christianity. She was not contented with the measure of information she had acquired, but intended to push her studies into higher branches of knowledge, which she knew to exist; but while she was contemplating great things for herself and her nation, her health began to decline. She had probably injured herself by too close application to her studies. The change from flying through the groves and paddling the canoe to such a sedentary life, which she must have severely felt, and with her anxiety for the conversion of her family, particularly of a brother, who had died the preceding year, aggravated her disease. She bore her sickness with great resignation, and her piety made a deep impression on the hearts of all who knew and loved her. She died July 18th, 1823, and was buried at Creek-path, beside her dear brother John, whom she had been instrumental in converting to Christianity. BROWNE, MARY ANNE, 99 66 93 66 Was born in 1812, at Maiden Head, Berkshire, England. She began to publish at the age of fifteen, and her poems even then showed great genius. Her father removed to Liverpool in 1830; and in 1842, Miss Browne was married to James Gray, a Scotch gentleman, and a nephew of James Hogg, the shepherd-poet. She died at Cork, in 1844. Her first work was "Mont-Blanc;" her others were, "Ada,' 'Repentance," The Coronal," "Birth-Day Gift," "Ignatia," volume of "Sacred Poetry," and a great number of fugitive pieces, in prose as well as verse. She was as well known by those among whom she lived for her active benevolence, as for her poetical talents, being eminently pious, gentle, and benevolent. There is very little display of that sort of tender and flowery description, which may be termed sentimentalism, in the poetry of Miss Browne. She is reflective, serious, and, at times, sublime. Human nature, as its passions and changes, hopes, fears and joys, are displayed in books and in social life, seems to have been her study, rather than "running brooks" or " flowery meads." Hence, her style is modelled on the manner of the old bards; and though her poetry never reaches the height she evidently sought to attain, it is excellent for its pure taste and just sentiment; while a few instances of bold imagination show vividly the ardour of a fancy, which prudence and delicacy always controlled. THE HEART AND LYRE. She left her lyre within the hall, When last she parted with her loved; And still it hangs upon the wallHe will not let it be removed. Around that lyre of sweetest tone She twined a wreath of roses fair; And, though their lovely hue is gone, The withered blossoms still are there. No hand hath touched its silver string |
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