Till you have trac'd the fabric o'er:-
As yet, we have beheld no more
Than just the porch to Freedom's fane,
And, though a sable drop may stain
The vestibule, 'tis impious sin
To doubt there's holiness within!
So here I pause-and now, my Kate,
To you (whose simplest ringlet's fate
Can claim more interest in my soul
Than all the powers from pole to pole)
One word at parting; in the tone
Most sweet to you, and most my own.
The simple notes I send you here,*
Though rude, my love, would still be dear,
If you but knew the trance of thought,
In which my mind their murmurs caught.
'Twas one of those enchanting dreams,
That lull me oft, when Music seems
To pour the soul in sound along,
And turn its every sigh to song!
I thought of home, the according lays
Respir'd the breath of happier days;
Warmly in every rising note
I felt a sweet remembrance float,
can say of it is, that it abounds in dogs, in negroes and in democrats. For further particulars see Weld and Lian
* A trifling attempt at musical composition accompanied this Epistle.
Till, led by Music's fairy chain,
I wander'd back to home again!
Oh! love the song, and let it oft
Live on your lip, in warble soft!
Say that it tells you, simply well,
All I have bid its murmurs tell,
Of memory's glow, of dreams that shed
The tinge of joy, when joy is fled,
And all the heart's illusive hoard
Of love renew'd and friends restor'd!
Now, sweet, adieu!—this artless air,
And a few rhymes in transcript fair,*
Are all the gifts I yet can boast
To send you from Columbia's coast;
But, when the sun, with warmer smile,
Shall light me to my destin'd isle,†
You shall have many a cowslip-bell
Where Ariel slept, and many a shell,
In which the gentle spirit drew
From honey-flowers the morning dew!
* The poems which immediately follow. † Bermuda.
After an Interval of Absence.
CONCEAL'D within the shady wood
A mother left her sleeping child,
And flew, to cull her rustic food,
The fruitage of the forest wild.
But storms upon her path-way rise,
The mother roams, astray and weeping,
Far from the weak appealing cries
Of him she left so sweetly sleeping.
She hopes, she fears; a light is seen,
And gentler blows the night-wind's breath;
Yet no 'tis gone-the storms are keen,
The baby may be chill'd to death!
Perhaps his little eyes are shaded
Dim by Death's eternal chill-
And yet, perhaps, they are not faded,
Life and love may light them still.
Thus, when my soul with parting sigh,
Hung on thy hand's bewildering touch,
And, timid, ask'd that speaking eye,
If parting pained thee half so much,
I thought, and, oh! forgive the thought,
For who, by eyes like thine inspir'd,
Could e'er resist the flattering fault
Of fancying what his soul desir'd?
Yes I did think, in CARA's mind,
Though yet to CARA's mind unknown,
I left one infant wish behind,
One feeling, which I call'd my own!
Oh blest! though but in fancy blest,
How did I ask of Pity's care,
To shield and strengthen in thy breast,
The nursling I had cradled there.
And, many an hour beguil'd by pleasure,
And many an hour of sorrow numbering,
I ne'er forgot the new-born treasure,
I left within thy bosom slumbering.
Perhaps, indifference has not chill'd it,
Haply, it yet a throb may give
Yet, no-perhaps a doubt has kill'd it!
Oh, CARA!does the infant live?
On the Dawning of a New Year's Day.
WHEN midnight came to close the year,
We sigh'd to think it thus should take
The hours it gave us-hours as dear
As sympathy and love could make
Their blessed moments! every sun
Saw us, my love, more closely one!
But, CARA, when the dawn was nigh
Which came another year to shed,
The smile we caught from eye to eye
Told us, those moments were not fled;
Oh no!-we felt, some future sun
Should see us still more closely one!
Thus may we ever, side by side,
From happy years to happier glide,
And still, my CARA, may the sigh
We give to hours, that vanish o'er us,
Be follow'd by the smiling eye,
That Hope shall shed on scenes before us!
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