Born where the glorious star-lights trace In mountain snows their silver face, Where Nature, vast and rude, Looks as if by her G.o.d design'd To fill the bright eternal mind, With her fair magnitude.

Hers was a face, to which was given Less portion of the earth than heaven, As if each trait had stole Its hue from Nature's shapes of light; As if stars, flowers, and all things bright Had join'd to form her soul.

Her heart was young--she loved to breathe The air which spins the mountain's wreath, To wander o'er the wild, To list the music of the deep, To see the round stars on it sleep, For she was Nature's child!

Nursed where the soul imbibes the print Of freedom--where nought comes to taint, Or its warm feelings quell: She felt love o'er her spirit driven, Such as the angels felt in heaven, Before they sinn'd and fell.

Her mind was tutor'd from its birth, From all that's beautiful on earth-- Lights which cannot expire-- From all their glory, she had caught A l.u.s.tre, till each sense seem'd fraught With heaven's celestial fire.

The desert streams familiar grown, The stars had language of their own, The hills contain'd a voice With which she could converse, and bring A charm from each insensate thing, Which bade her soul rejoice.

She had the feeling and the fire, That fortune's stormiest blast could tire, Though delicate and young; Her bosom was not formed to bend-- Adversity, that firmest friend, Had all its fibres strung.

Such was my love--she scorn'd to hide A pa.s.sion which she deem'd a pride!

Oft have we sat and view'd The beauteous stars walk through the night, And Cynthia lift her sceptre bright, To curb old Ocean's mood.

She'd clasp me as if ne'er to part, That I might feel her beating heart-- Might read her living eye; Then pause! I've felt the pure tide roll Through every vein, which to my soul, Said--Nature could not lie.

LUCY'S GRAVE.

My spirit could its vigil hold For ever at this silent spot; But, ah! the heart within is cold, The sleeper heeds me not: The fairy scenes of love and youth, The smiles of hope, the tales of truth, By her are all forgot: Her spirit with my bliss is fled-- I only weep above the dead!

I need not view the gra.s.sy swell, Nor stone escutcheon'd fair; I need no monument to tell That thou art lying there: I feel within, a world like this, A fearful blank in all my bliss-- An agonized despair, Which paints the earth in cheerful bloom, But tells me, thou art in the tomb!

I knew Death's fatal power, alas Could doom man's hopes to pine, But thought that many a year would pa.s.s Before he scatter'd mine!

Too soon he quench'd our morning rays, Brief were our loves of early days-- Brief as those bolts that shine With beautiful yet transient form, Round the dark fringes of the storm!

I little thought, when first we met, A few short months would see Thy sun, before its noontide, set In dark eternity!

While love was beaming from thy face, A lover's eye but ill could trace Aught that obscured its ray; So calm its pain thy bosom bore, I thought not death was at its core!

The silver moon is shining now Upon thy lonely bed, Pale as thine own unblemish'd brow, Cold as thy virgin head; She seems to breathe of many a day Now shrouded with thee in the clay, Of visions that have fled, When we beneath her holy flame, Dream'd over hopes that never came!

Hark! 'tis the solemn midnight bell, It mars the hallow'd scene; And must we bid again--farewell!

Must life still intervene?

Its charms are vain! my heart is laid E'en with thine own, celestial maid!

A few short days have been An age of pain--a few may be A welcome pa.s.sport, love! to thee.

THE FORGOTTEN BRAVE.

'Tis finish'd, they 've died for their forefathers' land, As the patriot sons of the mountain should die, With the mail on each bosom, the sword in each hand, On the heath of the desert they lie.

Like their own mountain eagles they rush'd to the fight, Like the oaks of their deserts they braved its rude blast; Their blades in the morning look'd dazzling and bright, But red when the battle was past.

They rush'd on, exulting in honour, and met The foes of their country in battle array; But the sun of their glory in darkness hath set, And the flowers of the forest are faded away!

Oh! far from the scenes of their childhood they sleep, No friend of their bosom, no loved one is near, To add a gray stone to their cairns on the steep, Or drop o'er their ashes a tear.

THE FIRST SHIP.

The sky in beauty arch'd The wide and weltering flood, While the winds in triumph march'd Through their pathless solitude-- Rousing up the plume on ocean's h.o.a.ry crest, That like s.p.a.ce in darkness slept, When his watch old Silence kept, Ere the earliest planet leapt From its breast.

A speck is on the deeps, Like a spirit in her flight; How beautiful she keeps Her stately path in light!

She sweeps the shining wilderness in glee-- The sun has on her smiled, And the waves, no longer wild, Sing in glory round that child Of the sea.

'Twas at the set of sun That she tilted o'er the flood, Moving like G.o.d alone O'er the glorious solitude-- The billows crouch around her as her slaves.

How exulting are her crew-- Each sight to them is new, As they sweep along the blue Of the waves!

Fair herald of the fleets That yet shall cross the wave, Till the earth with ocean meets One universal grave, What armaments shall follow thee in joy!

Linking each distant land With trade's harmonious band, Or bearing havoc's brand To destroy!

WEEP NOT.

Though this wild brain is aching, Spill not thy tears with mine; Come to my heart, though breaking, Its firmest half is thine.

Thou wert not made for sorrow, Then do not weep with me; There is a lovely morrow, That yet will dawn on thee.

When I am all forgotten-- When in the grave I lie-- When the heart that loved thee 's broken, And closed the sparkling eye; Love's sunshine still will cheer thee, Unsullied, pure, and deep; For the G.o.d who 's ever near thee, Will never see thee weep.

TO THE CLYDE.

When cities of old days But meet the savage gaze, Stream of my early ways Thou wilt roll.

Though fleets forsake thy breast, And millions sink to rest-- Of the bright and glorious west Still the soul.

When the porch and stately arch, Which now so proudly perch O'er thy billows, on their march To the sea, Are but ashes in the shower; Still the jocund summer hour, From his cloud will weave a bower Over thee.

When the voice of human power Has ceased in mart and bower, Still the broom and mountain flower Will thee bless.

And the mists that love to stray O'er the Highlands, far away, Will come down their deserts gray To thy kiss.

And the stranger, brown with toil, From the far Atlantic soil, Like the pilgrim of the Nile, Yet may come To search the solemn heaps That moulder by thy deeps, Where desolation sleeps, Ever dumb.