TO A BELLE WHO TALKED OF GIVING UP THE WORLD.

Caught'st thou thy carol from Otawa maid, Where, through the liquid fields of wild rice plashing,

sun,

When tired of drinking the dew from the flowers, While his rays, like young hopes, stealing off one by one, [towers,

Die away with the Muezzin's last note from the Declare that he never would gladden again,

With one rosy smile, the young morn in its birthBut leave weeping Day, with her sorrowful train Of hours, to grope o'er a pall-cover'd earth. The light of that soul, once so brilliant and steady, So far can the incense of flattery smother, That, at thought of the world of hearts conquer'd already:

Like Macedon's madman, you weep for another? O! if sated with this, you would seek worlds untried, And, fresh as was ours, when first we began it, Let me know but the sphere where you next will abide,

And, that instant, for one, I am off for that planet.

THE BOB-O'LINKUM.

THOU Vocal sprite! thou feather'd troubadour!
In pilgrim weeds through many a clime a ranger,
Com'st thou to doff thy russet suit once more,

And play in foppish trim the masquing stranger? Philosophers may teach thy whereabouts and nature;

But, wise as all of us, perforce, must think 'em, The schoolboy best hath fix'd thy nomenclature, And poets, too, must call thee Bob O'Linkum! Say! art thou, long mid forest glooms benighted, So glad to skim our laughing meadows over, With our gay orchards here so much delighted, It makes thee musical, thou airy rover? Or are those buoyant notes the pilfer'd treasure Of fairy isles, which thou hast learn'd to ravish Of all their sweetest minstrelsy at pleasure, And, Ariel-like, again on men to lavish? They tell sad stories of thy mad-cap freaks; Wherever o'er the land thy pathway ranges; And even in a brace of wandering weeks,

They say, alike thy song and plumage changes: Here both are gay; and when the buds put forth, And leafy June is shading rock and river, Thou art unmatch'd, blithe warbler of the north, When through the balmy air thy clear notes quiver.

Joyous, yet tender, was that gush of song Caught from the brooks, where, mid its wildflowers smiling,

The silent prairie listens all day long,

The only captive to such sweet beguiling;
Or didst thou, flitting through the verdurous halls
And column'd aisles of western groves sympho-
nious,

Learn from the tuneful woods rare madrigals,
To make our flowering pastures here harmonious?

Her birch canoe o'er some lone lake is flashing? Or did the reeds of some savannah south Detain thee while thy northern flight pursuing, To place those melodies in thy sweet mouth

The spice-fed winds had taught them in their wooing?

Unthrifty prodigal! is no thought of ill

Thy ceaseless roundelay disturbing ever? Or doth each pulse in choiring cadence still Throb on in music till at rest forever?

Yet, now in wilder'd maze of concord floating,

"T would seem that glorious hymning to prolong, Old Time, in hearing thee, might fall a doting, And pause to listen to thy rapturous song!

THE FORESTER.

THERE was an old hunter camp'd down by the rill,
Who fish'd in this water, and shot on that hill;
The forest for him had no danger nor gloom,
For all that he wanted was plenty of room.
Says he, "The world's wide, there is room for us all:
Room enough in the greenwood if not in the hall."
Room, boys, room, by the light of the moon,
For why shouldn't every man enjoy his own room?
He wove his own mats, and his shanty was spread
With the skins he had dress'd, and stretch'd out

overhead;

The branches of hemlock, piled deep on the floor, Was his bed, as he sung, when the daylight was o'er, "The world's wide enough, there is room for us all; Room enough in the greenwood, if not in the hall." Room, boys, room, by the light of the moon,

For why shouldn't every man enjoy his own room? That spring, half choked up by the dust of the road, Through a grove of tall maples once limpidly flow'd; By the rock whence it bubbles his kettle was hung, Which their sap often fill'd, while the hunter he sung, The world's wide enough, there is room for us all; Room enough in the greenwood, if not in the hall.” Room, boys, room, by the light of the moon, For why shouldn't every man enjoy his own room? And still sung the hunter-when one gloomy day He saw in the forest what sadden'd his lay, "Twas the rut which a heavy-wheel'd wagon had made, [forest glade,Where the greensward grows thick in the broad "The world's wide enough, there is room for us all; Room enough in the greenwood, if not in the hall." Room, boys, room, by the light of the moon, For why shouldn't every man enjoy his own room? He whistled his dog, and says he, "We can't stay; I must shoulder my rifle, up traps, and away." Next day, mid those maples, the settler's axe rung, While slowly the hunter trudged off, as he sung, "The world's wide enough, there is room for us all; Room enough in the greenwood, if not in the hall." Room, boys, room, by the light of the moon, For why shouldn't every man enjoy his own room?

THE MYRTLE AND STEEL.

ONE bumper yet, gallants, at parting,
One toast ere we arm for the fight;
Fill round, each to her he loves dearest-

"T is the last he may pledge her, to-night.
Think of those who of old at the banquet
Did their weapons in garlands conceal,
The patriot heroes who hallowed

The entwining of myrtle and steel!
Then hey for the myrtle and steel,
Then ho for the myrtle and steel,

Let every true blade that e'er loved a fair maid,
Fill round to the myrtle and steel!

"T is in moments like this, when each bosom
With its highest-toned feeling is warm,
Like the music that's said from the ocean
To rise ere the gathering storm,
That her image around us should hover,
Whose name, though our lips ne'er reveal,
We may breathe mid the foam of a bumper,
As we drink to the myrtle and steel.
Then hey for the myrtle and steel,
Then ho for the myrtle and steel,

Let every true blade that e'er loved a fair maid,
Fill round to the myrtle and steel!

Now mount, for our bugle is ringing
To marshal the host for the fray,
Where proudly our banner is flinging
Its folds o'er the battle-array;
Yet gallants-one moment-remember,

When your sabres the death-blow would deal,
That MERCY wears her shape who's cherish'd
By lads of the myrtle and steel.
Then hey for the myrtle and steel,
Then ho for the myrtle and steel,

Let every true blade that e'er loved a fair maid, Fill round to the myrtle and steel!

EPITAPH UPON A DOG.

AN ear that caught my slightest tone,
In kindness or in anger spoken;
An eye that ever watch'd my own,
In vigils death alone has broken;
Its changeless, ceaseless, and unbought
Affection to the last revealing;
Beaming almost with human thought,
And more-far more than human feeling!

Can such in endless sleep be chill'd,

And mortal pride disdain to sorrow, Because the pulse that here was still'd May wake to no immortal morrow? Can faith, devotedness, and love,

That seem to humbler creatures given To tell us what we owe above,

The types of what is due to Heaven,

Can these be with the things that were,

Things cherish'd-but no more returning, And leave behind no trace of care,

No shade that speaks a moment's mourning?

Alas! my friend, of all of worth

That years have stolen or years yet leave me, I've never known so much on earth, But that the loss of thine must grieve me.

ANACREONTIC.

BLAME not the bowl-the fruitful bowl, Whence wit, and mirth, and music spring, And amber drops elysian roll,

To bathe young Love's delighted wing. What like the grape OSIRIS gave

Makes rigid age so lithe of limb? Illumines memory's tearful wave,

And teaches drowning hope to swim? Did ocean from his radiant arms

To earth another VENUS give, He ne'er could match the mellow charms That in the breathing beaker live. Like burning thoughts which lovers hoard, In characters that mock the sight, Till some kind liquid, o'er them pour'd,

Brings all their hidden warmth to lightAre feelings bright, which, in the cup,

Though graven deep, appear but dim, Till, fill'd with glowing BACCHUS up, They sparkle on the foaming brim. Each drop upon the first you pour Brings some new tender thought to life, And, as you fill it more and more,

The last with fervid soul is rife.

The island fount, that kept of old

Its fabled path beneath the sea, And fresh, as first from earth it roll'd,

From earth again rose joyously: Bore not beneath the bitter brine

Each flower upon its limpid tide, More faithfully than in the wine

Our hearts toward each other glide. Then drain the cup, and let thy soul Learn, as the draught delicious flies, Like pearls in the Egyptian's bowl, Truth beaming at the bottom lies.

A HUNTER'S MATIN.
Ur, comrades, up! the morn's awake
Upon the mountain side,

The curlew's wing hath swept the lake,
And the deer has left the tangled brake,

To drink from the limpid tide.
Up, comrades, up! the mead-lark's note
And the plover's cry o'er the prairie float;
The squirrel, he springs from his covert now,
To prank it away on the chestnut bough,
Where the oriole's pendant nest, high up,
Is rock'd on the swaying trees,
While the humbird sips from the harebell's cup,
As it bends to the morning breeze.
Up, comrades, up! our shallops grate
Upon the pebbly strand,

And our stalwart hounds impatient wait

To spring from the huntsman's hand.

LOVE AND POLITICS.

A BIRTH-DAY MEDITATION.

ANOTHER year! alas, how swift,
ALINDA, do these years flit by,

Like shadows thrown by clouds that drift
In flakes along a wintry sky.
Another year! another leaf

Is turn'd within life's volume brief,
And yet not one bright page appears
Of mine within that book of years.

There are some moments when I feel
As if it should not yet be so;
As if the years that from me steal

Had not a right alike to go,
And lose themselves in Time's dark sea,
Unbuoy'd up by aught from me;
Aught that the future yet might claim
To rescue from their wreck a name.

But it was love that taught me rhyme,
And it was thou that taught me love;
And if I in this idle chime

Of words a useless sluggard prove,
It was thine eyes the habit nurs'd,
And in their light I learn'd it first.
It is thine eyes which, day by day,
Consume my time and heart away.

And often bitter thoughts arise

Of what I've lost in loving thee,
And in my breast my spirit dies,

The gloomy cloud around to see,
Of baffled hopes and ruined powers
Of mind, and miserable hours-
Of self-upbraiding, and despair-

Of heart, too strong and fierce to bear.

64

Why, what a peasant slave am I,"

To bow my mind and bend my knee To woman in idolatry,

Who takes no thought of mine or me.
O, GOD! that I could breathe my life
On battle-plain in charging strife-
In one mad impulse pour my soul
Far beyond passion's base control.

Thus do my jarring thoughts revolve
Their gather'd causes of offence,
Until I in my heart resolve

To dash thine angel image thence;
When some bright look, some accent kind,
Comes freshly in my heated mind,
And scares, like newly-flushing day,
These brooding thoughts like owls away.

And then for hours and hours I muse

On things that might, yet will not be, Till, one by one, my feelings lose

Their passionate intensity,
And steal away in visions soft,

Which on wild wing those feelings waft
Far, far beyond the drear domain
Of Reason and her freezing reign.

And now again from their gay track

I call, as I despondent sit, Once more these truant fancies back,

Which round my brain so idly flit; And some I treasure, some I blush To own-and these I try to crushAnd some, too wild for reason's reign, I loose in idle rhyme again.

And even thus my moments fly,
And even thus my hours decay,
And even thus my years slip by,

My life itself is wiled away;
But distant still the mounting hope,
The burning wish with men to cope
In aught that minds of iron mould
May do or dare for fame or gold.
Another year! another year,

ALINDA, it shall not be so;
Both love and lays forswear I here,
As I've forsworn thee long ago.
That name, which thou wouldst never share,
Proudly shall Fame emblazon where

On pumps and corners posters stick it,
The highest on the JACKSON ticket.

WHAT IS SOLITUDE?

Nor in the shadowy wood,

Not in the crag-hung glen, Not where the echoes brood

In caves untrod by men;
Not by the bleak sea-shore,

Where loitering surges break,
Not on the mountain hoar,
Not by the breezeless lake,
Not on the desert plain,

Where man hath never stood,
Whether on isle or main-
Not there is solitude!
Birds are in woodland bowers,

Voices in lonely dells,
Streams to the listening hours

Talk in earth's secret cells; Over the gray-ribb'd sand

Breathe ocean's frothing lips, Over the still lake's strand

The flower toward it dips; Pluming the mountain's crest, Life tosses in its pines; Coursing the desert's breast,

Life in the steed's mane shines. Leave-if thou wouldst be lonely

Leave Nature for the crowd; Seek there for one-one onlyWith kindred mind endow'd! There-as with Nature erst

Closely thou wouldst communeThe deep soul-music, nursed In either heart, attune! Heart-wearied, thou wilt own,

Vainly that phantom woo'd, That thou at last hast known What is true solitude!

THE STUDENT'S SONG.

THOUGHTS-wild thoughts! O, why will ye wander,
Wander away from the task that's before ye?
Heart-weak heart! O, why art thou fonder,
Fonder of her than ever of glory?
What though the laurel for thee hath no glitter;
What though thy soul never yearn'd for a name:
When did Love garland a brow that was fitter

To wake in Love's bosom the wild wish of fame? Doth she not watch o'er thine every endeavour? Leans not her heart in warm faith on thine own? If thou sit doubting and dreaming forever,

Too late thou 'lt discover that her dream is flown! Ay! though each thought that is tender and glowing Hath yet no errand, save only to herShe may forget thee, while Time is thus flowing; Thou waste thy worship-fond idolater!

WITHERING-WITHERING.

WITHERING-withering-all are withering-
All of Hope's flowers that youth hath nursed—
Flowers of Love too early blossoming;

Buds of Ambition too frail to burst.
Faintily-faintily-O! how faintily
I feel life's pulses ebb and flow:
Yet, Sorrow, I know thou dealest daintily

With one who should not wish to live moe.

Nay! why, young heart, thus timidly shrinking?
Why doth thy upward wing thus tire?
Why are thy pinions so droopingly sinking,
When they should only waft thee higher?
Upward-upward let them be waving,

Lifting thy soul toward her place of birth. There are guerdons there more worth thy havingFar more than any these lures of the earth.

INSCRIPTION FOR A LADY'S FLORA. BRIGHT as the dew, on early buds that glistens, Sparkle each hope upon thy flower-strewn path; Gay as a bird to its new mate that listens,

Be to thy soul each winged joy it hath; Thy lot still lead through ever-blooming bowers, And Time forever talk to thee in flowers. Adored in youth, while yet the summer roses

Of glowing girlhood bloom upon thy cheek, And, loved not less when fading, there reposes The lily, that of spring-time past doth speak. Never from Life's garden to be rudely riven, But softly stolen away from earth to heaven.

I DO NOT LOVE THEE.

I Do not love thee-by my word I do not!
I do not love thee-for thy love I sue not!
And yet, I fear, there's hardly one that weareth
Thy beauty's chains, who like me for thee careth:
Who joys like me when in thy joy believing—
Who, like me, grieves when thou dost seem but
grieving.

But, though I charms so perilous eschew not,
I do not love thee-trust me that I do not!

I do not love thee!-prithee why so coy, then? Doth it thy maiden bashfulness annoy, then; Sith the heart's homage still will be up-welling, Where truth and goodness have so sweet a dwelling? Surely, unjust one, I were less than mortal, Knelt I not thus before that temple's portal? Others dare to love thee--dare what I do notThen O! let me worship, bright one, while I woo not!

"TRUST IN THEE."

"TRUST in thee?" Ay, dearest! there's no one but must,

Unless truth be a fable, in such as thee trust!
For who can see heaven's own hue in those eyes,
And doubt that truth with it came down from the
skies;
[young light,
While each thought of thy bosom, like morning's
Almost ere 'tis born, flashes there on his sight?
"Trust in thee?" Why, bright one, thou couldst
not betray,

While thy heart and thine eyes are forever at play!
And he who unloving can study the one,
Is so certain to be by the other undone,
That if he cares aught for his quiet, he must,
Like me, sweetest MARY, in both of them trust.

I KNOW THOU DOST LOVE ME. I KNOW thou dost love me-ay! frown as thou wilt, And curl that beautiful lip,

Which I never can gaze on without the guilt

Of burning its dew to sip.

I know that my heart is reflected in thine,
And, like flowers that over a brook incline,
They toward each other dip.

Though thou lookest so cold in these halls of light,
Mid the careless, proud, and gay,

I will steal, like a thief, in thy heart at night,
And pilfer its thoughts away.

I will come in thy dreams at the midnight hour,
And thy soul in secret shall own the power
It dares to mock by day.

ΤΟ

I KNEW not how I loved thee-no!
I knew it not till all was o'er-
Until thy lips had told me so-

Had told me I must love no more!
I knew not how I loved thee !-yet
I long had loved thee wildly well;

I thought 't were easy to forget

I thought a word would break the spell: And even when that word was spoken, Ay! even till the very last,

I thought, that spell of faith once broken,
I could not long lament the past.
O, foolish heart! O, feeble brain,

That love could thus deceive--subdue!

Since hope cannot revive again,

Why cannot memory perish too?

INDIAN SUMMER, 1828.

LIGHT as love's smiles, the silvery mist at morn Floats in loose flakes along the limpid river; The blue bird's notes upon the soft breeze borne, As high in air he carols, faintly quiver; The weeping birch, like banners idly waving, Bends to the stream, its spicy branches laving; Beaded with dew, the witch-elm's tassels shiver; The timid rabbit from the furze is peeping, And from the springy spray the squirrel's gayly leaping.

I love thee, Autumn, for thy scenery ere The blasts of winter chase the varied dyes That richly deck the slow-declining year; I love the splendour of thy sunset skies, The gorgeous hues that tinge each failing leaf, Lovely as beauty's cheek, as woman's love too, I love the note of each wild bird that flies, [brief; As on the wind he pours his parting lay, And wings his loitering flight to summer climes away.

O, Nature! still I fondly turn to thee, With feelings fresh as e'er my childhood's were;Though wild and passion-toss'd my youth may be, Toward thee I still the same devotion bear; To thee to thee-though health and hope no more Life's wasted verdure may to me restoreI still can, child-like, come as when in prayer I bow'd my head upon a mother's knee, And deem'd the world, like her, all truth and purity.

TOWN REPININGS.

RIVER! O, river! thou rovest free,

From the mountain height to the fresh blue sea!
Free thyself, but with silver chain,
Linking each charm of land and main,
From the splinter'd crag thou leap'st below,
Through leafy glades at will to flow-
Lingering now, by the steep's moss'd edge—
Loitering now mid the dallying sedge:
And pausing ever, to call thy waves
From grassy meadows and fern-clad caves-
And then, with a prouder tide to break
From wooded valley, to breezy lake:
Yet all of these scenes, though fair they be,
River! O, river! are bann'd to me.

River! O, river! upon thy tide
Full many a freighted bark doth glide;
Would that thou thus couldst bear away
The thoughts that burthen my weary day!
Or that I, from all save them made free,
Though laden still, might rove with thee!
True that thy waves brief lifetime find,
And live at the will of the wanton wind--
True that thou seekest the ocean's flow,
To be lost therein for evermoe.
Yet the slave who worships at Glory's shrine,
But toils for a bubble as frail as thine:
But loses his freedom here, to be

Forgotten as soon as in death set free.

I WILL love her no more -'t is a waste of the heart,
This lavish of feeling-a prodigal's part:
Who, heedless the treasure a life could not earn,
Squanders forth where he vainly may look for return.

I will love her no more; it is folly to give
Our best years to one, when for many we live.
And he who the world will thus barter for one,
I ween by such traffic must soon be undone.

I will love her no more; it is heathenish thus
To bow to an idol which bends not to us;
Which heeds not, which hears not, which recks

not for aught

That the worship of years to its altar hath brought.

I will love her no more; for no love is without
Its limit in measure, and mine hath run out;
She engrosseth it all, and, till some she restore,
Than this moment I love her, how can I love more?