Puslapio vaizdai

Your lordship observes they are made with a straddle,
As wide as the ridge of the nose is; in short
Designed to sit to it, just like a saddle.

Again would your lordship a moment suppose
('Tis a case that has happened and may be again)
That the visage or countenance had not a Nose,
Pray who would or who could wear spectacles then?
On the whole it appears, and my argument shows,
With a reasoning the court will never condemn
That the spectacles plainly were made for the Nose,
And the Nose was as plainly intended for them.
Then shifting his side, as the lawyer knows how,
He pleaded again in behalf of the Eyes;
But what were his arguments few people know,
For the world did not think they were equally wise
So his lordship decreed, with a grave solemn tone,
Decisive and clear, without one if or but-
That whenever the Nose put his spectacles on,
By day-light or candle-light-Eyes should be shut.



He comes not I have watched the moon go down,
But yet he comes not.-Once it was not so:
He thinks not how these bitter tears do flow,
The while he holds his riot in that town.
Yet he will come and chide, and I shall weep,
And he will wake my infant from its sleep,
To blend its feeble wailings with my tears!
Oh how I love a mother's watch to keep,
O'er those sleeping eyes, that smile which cheers
My heart, though sunk in sorrow fix'd and deep.
I had a husband once who loved me-now,
He ever wears a frown upon his brow,
And feeds his passion on a wanton's life,
As bees from laurel flower a poison sip!
But yet I cannot hate-O! there were hours,

When I would hang for ever on his eye,
And Time, who stole with silent sadness by,
Strew'd, as he hurried on, his path with flowers.
I loved him then, he loved me too-my heart
Still finds its fondness kindle if he smile.
The memory of our loves will ne'er depart!
And though he often sting me with a dart,
Venom'd and barb'd, and waste upon the vile
Caresses, which his babe and mine should share ;
Though he should spurn me, I will calmly bear
His madness--and should sickness come, and lay
Its paralysing hand upon him, then

I would, with kindness, all my wrongs repay,
Until the penitent should weep and say
How injured and how faithful I had been.



On Susquehana's side, fair Wyoming!
Although the wild flower on thy ruin'd wall,
And roofless homes, a sad remembrance bring
Of what thy gentle people did befall;

Yet thou wert once the loveliest land of all
That see the Atlantic wave their morn restore.
Sweet land! may I thy lost delights recall.
And paint thy Gertrude in her bowers of yore
Whose beauty was the love of Pennsylvania's shore.

Delightful Wyoming! beneath thy skies,

The happy shepherd swains had nought to do, But feed their flocks on green declivities,

Or skim perchance thy lake with light canoe, From morn till evening's sweeter pastime grew, With timbrel, when beneath the forest's brown,

Thy lovely maidens would the dance renew, And aye those sunny mountains half way down, Would echo flageolet from some romantic town.

Then where of Indian hills, the daylight takes
His leave, how might you the flamingo see,
Disporting, like a meteor on the lakes,

And playful squirrel on his nut-grown tree;
And every sound of life was full of glee,
From merry mock-bird's song, or hum of men,
While hearkening, fearing nought their revelry,
The wild deer arch'd his neck from glades, and then,
Unhunted, sought his woods and wilderness again.

And scarce had Wyoming of war or crime
Heard, but in trans-atlantic story rung,
For here the exile met from every clime,
And spoke in friendship every distant tongue,
Men from the blood of warring Europe sprung,
Were but divided by the running brook;

And happy where no Rhenish trumpet sung,
On plains, no sieging mine's volcano shook,

The blue-eyed German changed his sword to pruninghook.

Here was not mingled in the city's pomp

Of life's extremes, the grandeur and the gloom,
Judgment awoke not here her dismal tromp,
Nor seal'd in blood a fellow-creature's doom,
Nor mourn'd the captive in a living tomb.
One venerable man beloved of all,

Sufficed, where innocence was yet in bloom,
To sway
the strife that seldom might befall;
And Albert was their judge in patriarchal hall.

How reverend was the look, serenely aged.
He bore, this aged Pennsylvanian sire,
When all but kindly fervours were assuaged,
Undimm'd by weakness' shade or turbid ire!
And though, amidst the calm of thought entire,
Some high and haughty features might betray

A soul impetuous once, 'twas earthly fire,
That fled composure's intellectual ray,
As Etna' fires grow dim before the rising day.



How drear and awful is this solitude!
Nature herself is surely dead, and o'er
Her cold and stiffened corse a winding sheet,
Of bright unsullied purity, is thrown.

How still she lies! she smiles, she breathes no more!
Yon drooping elm, whose pale and leafless boughs
O'erhang the stream, hath wept itself to death.
The stream that once did gaily dance and sing
The live-long day, now, stiff and silent, lies
Immoveable-congeal'd to glittering shingles,
'Tis beautiful in death! That grove, which late
Did woo the merry stream with ceaseless music,
From morn till eve, with notes of thousand songsters,
And all the night with those melodious strains,
With which lone Philomela tells her love,
Now silent stands a bleached skeleton.
The sky itself is shrouded; now no more
The rosy blush of health, the glow of rapture,
Or cheerful smile of peace her face illumines;
One sickly vivid hue is spread o'er all.
The veil of air wont not to hide, but show
With mild and softening azure tint more sweet
The beauteous aspect of the varying heaven,
Is now become a foul and dense disguise.
The sun, that glorious source of warmth and light,
Arrested in his course, flares through the dun
And turbid atmosphere, as if expiring.

Nought else appears-it seems as though this spot
Were all creation, and myself the sole
Survivor. Oh! how awful thus to find
Myself alone with God-to know and feel
That his all-seeing, his all-searching eye,
Surveys my utmost thoughts! How little, now,
Appear the mighty joys, the hopes and fears,
Pursuits and pleasures of a transient world!
A world wherein, till now, like other men,

I've toiled and grieved, with many anxious cares,
But where I too have loved and been beloved,
With more of happiness than oft is found
In this probationary state. With Him
Who gave me all, and day by day, hath still,
With kind parental care my life preserved,
To stand alone is awful, but not dreadful.
Nay, sure, 'tis more than earthly bliss, here, thus
To hold communion with my heavenly Father.
Witness this heart, with gratitude o'ercharged,
Which pleads and presses to present its thanks:
Witness these tears which thus uncall'd obtrude,
And half congeal'd, fall to the frozen earth,
An humble offering at the throne of grace:
Witness this sweet, serene, and holy calm,
At once bespeaking and befitting for
The presence
of my
Maker; semblance faint.
Of happiness to come, when bliss supreme
Shall be the portion of these ransom'd saints,
Who through eternity shall join to raise
Loud hallelujahs to their heavenly King.



Of chance or change O let not man complain,
Else shall he never, never cease to wail;
For, from the imperial dome, to where the swain
Rears the lone cottage in the silent dale,
All feel the assault of Fortune's fickle gale;
Art, empire, earth itself, to change are doomed;
Earthquakes have raised to heaven the humble vale,
And gulfs the mountain's mighty mass entombed,
And where the Atlantic rolls, wide continents have

But sure to foreign claims we need not range,
Nor search the ancient records of our race,
To learn the dire effects of time and change,
Which in ourselves alas ! we daily trace.

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