Oh golden dream! what soul that loves to scan The bright disk rather than the dark of man, That owns the good, while smarting with the ill, And loves the world with all its frailty still,— What ardent bosom does not spring to meet The generous hope, with all that heavenly heat, Which makes the soul unwilling to resign The thoughts of growing, even on earth, divine! Yes, dearest friend, I see thee glow to think The chain of ages yet may boast a link Of purer texture than the world has known, And fit to bind us to a Godhead's throne.

Long has the love of gold, that meanest rage, And latest folly of man's sinking age, Which, rarely venturing in the van of life, While nobler passions wage their heated strife, Comes skulking last, with selfishness and fear, And dies, collecting lumber in the rear,Long has it palsied every grasping hand And greedy spirit through this bartering land; Turn'd life to traffic, set the demon gold So loose abroad that virtue's self is sold, And conscience, truth, and honesty are made To rise and fall, like other wares of trade."2

But, while I thus, my friend, in flowerless song, So feebly paint, what yet I feel so strong, The ills, the vices of the land, where first Those rebel fiends, that rack the world, were nursed, Where treason's arm by royalty was nerved, And Frenchmen learn'd to crush the throne they served

By bards illumined and by sages taught,
Pant'st to be all, upon this mortal scene,
That bard hath fancied or that sage hath been.
Why should I wake thee? why severely chase
The lovely forms of virtue and of grace,
That dwell before thee, like the pictures spread
By Spartan matrons round the genial bed,
Moulding thy fancy, and with gradual art
Bright'ning the young conceptions of thy heart.

Forgive me, Forbes-and should the song destroy One generous hope, one throb of social joy, One high pulsation of the zeal for man, Which few can feel, and bless that few who can,Oh! turn to him, beneath whose kindred eyes Thy talents open and thy virtues rise, Forget where nature has been dark or dim, And proudly study all her lights in him, Yes, yes, in him the erring world forget, And feel that man may reach perfection yet.

LINES

WRITTEN ON LEAVING PHILADELPHIA.

ALONE by the Schuylkill a wanderer roved,

And bright were its flowery banks to his eye; But far, very far were the friends that he loved,. And he gazed on its flowery banks with a sigh.

Oh Nature, though blessed and bright are thy rays, O'er the brow of creation enchantingly thrown, Yet faint are they all to the lustre that plays

In a smile from the heart that is fondly our own.

Nor long did the soul of the stranger remain Unbless'd by the smile he had languish'd to

meet;

Though scarce did he hope it would soothe him again,

Till the threshold of home had been press'd by his feet.

But the lays of his boyhood had stol'n to their ear, And they loved what they knew of so humble a

name;

And they told him, with flattery welcome and dear, That they found in his heart something better than fame.

Nor did woman-oh woman! whose form and whose soul

Are the spell and the light of each path we pursue·

Through shades that frown'd and flowers that smiled,

Flying by every green recess

That woo'd him to its calm caress,
Yet, sometimes turning with the wind,
As if to leave one look behind,-

Oft have I thought, and thinking sigh'd,
How like to thee, thou restless tide,
May be the lot, the life of him
Who roams along thy water's brim;
Through what alternate wastes of woe
And flowers of joy my path may go;
How many a shelter'd, calm retreat
May woo the while my weary feet,
While still pursuing, still unbless'd,
I wander on, nor dare to rest;

VOL. II.-20

Till the morn behold him lying
On the damp earth, pale and dying.
Mock him, when his eager sight
Seeks the cordial cottage-light;
Gleam then, like the lightning-bug,
Tempt him to the den that's dug
For the foul and famish'd brood
Of the she-wolf, gaunt for blood;
Or, unto the dangerous pass
Q'er the deep and dark morass,
Where the trembling Indian brings
Belts of porcelain, pipes, and rings,
Tributes, to be hung in air,
To the Fiend presiding there!48

Then, when night's long labor past, Wilder'd, faint, he falls at last, Sinking where the causeway's edge. Moulders in the slimy sedge, There let every noxious thing Trail its filth and fix its sting; Let the bull-toad taint him over, Round him let moschetoes hover, In his ears and eyeballs tingling, With his blood their poison mingling, Till, beneath the solar fires, Rankling all, the wretch expires!

ΤΟ

THE HONORABLE W. R. SPENCER.
FROM BUFFALO, UPON LAKE ERIE,
Nec venit ad duros musa vocata Getas.
OVID. ex Ponto, lib. i. ep. 5.

THOU oft hast told me of the happy hours
Enjoy'd by thee in fair Italia's bowers,
Where, ling'ring yet, the ghost of ancient wit
Midst modern monks profanely dares to flit,
And pagan spirits, by the pope unlaid,
Haunt every stream and sing through every shade.
There still the bard who (if his numbers be
His tongue's light echo) must have talked like
thee,-

The courtly bard, from whom thy mind has caught
Those playful, sunshine holidays of thought,
In which the spirit baskingly reclines,
Bright without effort, resting while it shines,-
There still he roves, and laughing loves to see
How modern priests with ancient rakes agree;
How, 'neath the cowl, the festal garland shines,
And Love still finds a niche in Christian shrines.

There still, too, roam those other souls of song,
With whom thy spirit hath communed so long,
That, quick as light, their rarest gems of thought,
By Memory's magic to thy lip are brought.
But here, alas! by Erie's stormy lake,

As, far from such bright haunts my course I take,
No proud remembrance o'er the fancy plays,
No classic dream, no star of other days
Hath left that visionary light behind,
That ling'ring radiance of immortal mind,
Which gilds and hallows even the rudest scene,
The humblest shed, where genius once has been!

All that creation's varying mass assumes Of grand or lovely, here aspires and blooms; Bold rise the mountains, rich the gardens glow, Bright lakes expand, and conquering" rivers flow; But mind, immortal mind, without whose ray, This world's a wilderness and man but clay, Mind, mind alone, in barren, still repose, Nor blooms, nor rises, nor expands, nor flows.

Is this the region then, is this the clime
For soaring fancies? for those dreams sublime,
Which all their miracles of light reveal

To heads that meditate and hearts that feel?
Alas! not so-the Muse of Nature lights
Her glories round; she scales the mountain heights,
And roams the forests; every wondrous spot
Burns with her step, yet man regards it not.
She whispers round, her words are in the air,
But lost, unheard, they linger freezing there,"
Without one breath of soul, divinely strong,
One ray of mind to thaw them into song.

Yet, yet forgive me, oh ye sacred few, Whom late by Delaware's green banks I knew; Whom, known and loved through many a social eve, 'Twas bliss to live with, and 'twas pain to leave. Not with more joy the lonely exile scann'd The writing traced upon the desert's sand, Where his lone heart but little hoped to find One trace of life, one stamp of human kind, Than did I hail the pure, th' enlighten'd zeal, The strength to reason and the warmth to feel, The manly polish and the illumined taste, Which,-'mid the melancholy, heartless waste, My foot has traversed,-oh you sacred few! I found by Delaware's green banks with you.

Believe me, Spencer, while I wing'd the hours Where Schuylkill winds his way through banks of flowers,

Though few the days, the happy evenings few,

So warm with heart, so rich with mind they flew,