And though Aurora's stealing beam May wake a morning of delight, 'Tis only thy consoling beam Will smile amid affliction's night.

FRAGMENT.

I.

Tuscara! thou art lovely now, Thy woods, that frown'd in sullen strength Like plumage on a giant's brow, Have bowed their ma.s.sy pride at length.

The rustling maize is green around, The sheep is in the Congar's bed; And clear the ploughman's whistlings sound Where war-whoop's pealed o'er mangled dead.

Fair cots around thy breast are set, Like pearls upon a coronet; And in Aluga's vale below The gilded grain is moving slow Like yellow moonlight on the sea, Where waves are swelling peacefully; As beauty's breast, when quiet dreams Come tranquilly and gently by; When all she loves and hopes for seems To float in smiles before her eye.

II.

And hast thou lost the grandeur rude That made me breathless, when at first Upon my infant sight you burst, The monarch of the solitude?

No; there is yet thy turret rock, The watch-tower of the skies, the lair Of Indian G.o.ds, who, in the shock Of bursting thunders, slumbered there; And trim thy bosom is arrayed In labour's green and glittering vest, And yet thy forest locks of shade Shake stormy on that turret crest.

Still hast thou left the rocks, the floods, And nature is the loveliest then, When first amid her caves and woods She feels the busy tread of men; When every tree, and bush, and flower, Springs wildly in its native grace; Ere art exerts her boasted power, That brightened only to deface.

III.

Yes! thou art lovelier now than ever; How sweet 'twould be, when all the air In moonlight swims, along thy river To couch upon the gra.s.s, and hear Niagara's everlasting voice, Far in the deep blue west away; That dreaming and poetic noise We mark not in the glare of day, Oh! how unlike its torrent-cry, When o'er the brink the tide is driven, As if the vast and sheeted sky In thunder fell from heaven.

IV.

Were I but there, the daylight fled, With that smooth air, the stream, the sky, And lying on that minstrel bed Of nature's own embroidery With those long tearful willows o'er me, That weeping fount, that solemn light, With scenes of sighing tales before me, And one green, maiden grave in sight; How mournfully the strain would rise Of that true maid, whose fate can yet Draw rainy tears from stubborn eyes; From lids that ne'er before were wet.

She lies not here, but that green grave Is sacred from the plough--and flowers, Snow-drops, and valley-lilies, wave Amid the gra.s.s; and other showers Than those of heaven have fallen there.

TO ---

When that eye of light shall in darkness fall, And thy bosom be shrouded in death's cold pall, When the bloom of that rich red lip shall fade, And thy head on its pillow of dust be laid;

Oh! then thy spirit shall see how true Are the holy vows I have breathed to you; My form shall moulder thy grave beside, And in the blue heavens I'll seek my bride.

Then we'll tell, as we tread yon azure sphere, Of the woes we have known while lingering here; And our spirits shall joy that, their pilgrimage o'er, They have met in the heavens to sever no more.

LINES.

Day gradual fades, in evening gray, Its last faint beam hath fled, And sinks the sun's declining ray In ocean's wavy bed.

So o'er the loves and joys of youth Thy waves, Indifference, roll; So mantles round our days of truth That death-pool of the soul.

Spreads o'er the heavens the shadowy night Her dim and shapeless form, So human pleasures, frail and light, Are lost in pa.s.sion's storm.

So fades the sunshine of the breast, So pa.s.sion's dreamings fall, So friendship's fervours sink to rest, Oblivion shrouds them all.

TO EVA.

A beam upon the myrtle fell From dewy evening's purest sky, 'Twas like the glance I love so well, Dear Eva, from thy moonlight eye.

I looked around the summer grove, On every tree its l.u.s.tre shone; For all had felt that look of love The silly myrtle deemed its own.

Eva! behold thine image there, As fair, as false thy glances fall; But who the worthless smile would share That sheds its light alike on all.

TO A LADY WITH A WITHERED VIOLET.

Though fate upon this faded flower His withering hand has laid, Its odour'd breath defies his power, Its sweets are undecayed.

And thus, although thy warbled strains No longer wildly thrill, The memory of the song remains, Its soul is with me still.

BRONX.

I sat me down upon a green bank-side, Skirting the smooth edge of a gentle river, Whose waters seemed unwillingly to glide, Like parting friends who linger while they sever; Enforced to go, yet seeming still unready, Backward they wind their way in many a wistful eddy.

Gray o'er my head the yellow-vested willow Ruffled its h.o.a.ry top in the fresh breezes, Glancing in light, like spray on a green billow, Or the fine frost-work which young winter freezes; When first his power in infant pastime trying, Congeals sad autumn's tears on the dead branches lying.

From rocks around hung the loose ivy dangling, And in the clefts sumach of liveliest green, Bright ising-stars the little beach was spangling, The gold-cup sorrel from his gauzy screen Shone like a fairy crown, enchased and beaded, Left on some morn, when light flashed in their eyes unheeded.

The hum-bird shook his sun-touched wings around, The bluefinch caroll'd in the still retreat; The antic squirrel capered on the ground Where lichens made a carpet for his feet: Through the transparent waves, the ruddy minkle Shot up in glimmering sparks his red fin's tiny twinkle.

There were dark cedars with loose mossy tresses, White powdered dog-trees, and stiff hollies flaunting Gaudy as rustics in their May-day dresses, Blue pelloret from purple leaves upslanting A modest gaze, like eyes of a young maiden Shining beneath dropt lids the evening of her wedding.

The breeze fresh springing from the lips of morn, Kissing the leaves, and sighing so to lose 'em, The winding of the merry locust's horn, The glad spring gushing from the rock's bare bosom: Sweet sights, sweet sounds, all sights, all sounds excelling, Oh! 'twas a ravishing spot formed for a poet's dwelling.

And did I leave thy loveliness, to stand Again in the dull world of earthly blindness?

Pained with the pressure of unfriendly hands, Sick of smooth looks, agued with icy kindness?

Left I for this thy shades, were none intrude, To prison wandering thought and mar sweet solitude?

Yet I will look upon thy face again, My own romantic Bronx, and it will be A face more pleasant than the face of men.

Thy waves are old companions, I shall see A well-remembered form in each old tree, And hear a voice long loved in thy wild minstrelsy.