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Poems

by George P. Morris



Contents.



Memoir The Deserted Bride The Main-Truck; Or, A Leap For Life Poetry The Croton Ode Fragment of an Indian Poem Land-Ho! Woodman, Spare that Tree The Cottager's Welcome Land of Washington The Flag of Our Union Lines After the Manner of Olden Time The Dream of Love I'm With You Once Again Oh, Would That She Were Here The Sword and the Staff The Chieftain's Daughter Thy Will Be Done Life in the West Song of Marion's Men Janet Morea Lisette My Mother's Bible The Dog-Star Rages Legend of the Mohawk The Ball-Room Belle We Were Boys Together Oh, Boatman, Haste Funeral Hymn O'er the Mountains Woman Rosabel Thy Tyrant Sway A Hero of the Revolution Rhyme and Reason: An Apologue Starlight Recollections Wearies My Love of My Letters? Fare Thee Well, Love Thou Hast Woven the Spell Bessie Bell The Day is Now Dawning, Love When Other Friends are Round Thee Silent Grief Love Thee, Dearest? I Love the Night The Miniature The Retort Lines on a Poet The Bacchanal Twenty Years Ago National Anthem I Love Thee Still Look From Thy Lattice, Love She Loved Him The Suitors St. Agnes' Shrine Western Refrain The Prairie on Fire The Evergreen The May-Queen Venetian Serenade The Whip-Poor-Will The Exile to His Sister Near the Lake Where Drooped the Willow The Pastor's Daughter Margaretta The Colonel The Sweep's Carol The Seasons of Love My Woodland Bride Oh, Think of Me My Bark is Out Upon the Sea Will Nobody Marry Me? The Star of Love Well-A-Day Not Married Yet Lady of England Oh, This Love Mary The Beam of Devotion The Welcome and Farewell 'Tis Now the Promised Hour The Songs of Home Masonic Hymn The Dismissed Lord of the Castle The Fallen Brave Song of the Troubadour Champions of Liberty The Hunter's Carol Washington's Monument The Sister's Appeal Song of the Reapers Walter Gay Grounds For Divorce Temperance Song Boat-Song Willie The Rock of the Pilgrims Years Ago The Soldier's Welcome Home The Origin of Yankee Doodle Lines on the Burial of Mrs. Mary L. Ward New-York in 1826 The Hero's Legacy What Can It Mean Where Hudson's Wave Au Revoir To My Absent Daughter Song of the Sewing Machine My Lady Waits For Me Music The Millionaire In Memory of Charles H. Sandford Seventy-Six A Parody The Stag-Hunt Deliver Us From Evil Union We Part For Ever Come to Me in Cherry Time On the Death of Mrs. Jessie Willis Thank God for Pleasant Weather The Master's Song The Missing Ship Jeannie Marsh Lucy Epitaph In Memory of John W. Francis, Jr Nature's Noblemen A Wall-Street Lyric King Cotton Words Adapted to a Spanish Melody Love in Exile To the Evening Star Welcome Home The Sycamore Shade Up the Hudson Only Thine Epigram on Reading Grim's Attack upon Clinton On Hearing that Morse Did Not Invent the Telegraph

Address for the Benefit of William Dunlop Address for the Benefit of J. Sheridan Knowles Address for the Benefit of Henry Placide

The Maid of Saxony: Or, Who's the Traitor? Ho! Hans!—Why, Hans! Rejoice! Rejoice! We're Safe and Sound The Life For Me is a Soldier's Life Confusion! Again Rejected! When I behold that Lowering Brow 'Tis a Soldier's Rigid Duty The Spring-Time of Love is Both Happy and Gay From My Fate There's No Retreating Lads and Lasses Trip Away All Hail the King! Home Sky, Stream, Moorland, and Mountain Dared These Lips My Sad Story Impart Fiery Mars, Thy Votary Hear Ah! Love is not a Garden-Flower The King, The Princes of the Court Victoria! Victoria! This Gloomy Cell is my Abode at Last Hark! 'Tis the Deep-Toned Midnight Bell Once, Mild and Gentle was my Heart The Gentle Bird on Yonder Spray That Law's the Perfection of Reason With Mercy Let Justice What Outrage More?—At Whose Command The Javelin From an Unseen Hand Rejoice! Our Loyal Hearts We Bring Our Hearts are Bounding with Delight

Notes The Deserted Bride The Croton Ode Woodman, Spare That Tree The Chieftain's Daughter Song of Marion's Men Janet McRea The Dog-Star Rages The Prairie on Fire The Sweep's Carol The Fallen Brave of Mexico The Champions of Liberty The Rock of the Pilgrims The Soldier's Welcome Home The Origin of Yankee Doodle New-York in 1826 The Maid of Saxony



Memoir of George P. Morris.

By Horace Binney Wallace.

Bless thou thy lot; thy simple strains have led The high-born muse to be the poor man's guest, And wafted on the wings of song, have sped Their way to many a rude, unlettered breast.

— Beranger.

Morris has hung the most beautiful thoughts in the world upon hinges of [illegible]; and his songs are destined to roll over bright lips enough to form a [sonnet? illegible]. His sentiments are simple, honest, truthful, and familiar; his language is pure and eminently musical, and he is prodigally full of the poetry of every-day living.

— Willis.



The distinction with which the name of General Morris is now associated in a permanent connection with what is least factitious or fugitive in American Art, is admitted and known; but the class of young men of letters in this country, at present, can hardly appreciate the extent to which they, and the profession to which they belong, are indebted to his animated exertions, his varied talents, his admirable resources of temper, during a period of twenty years, and at a time when the character of American literature, both at home and abroad was yet to be formed. The first great service which the literary taste of this country received, was rendered by Dennie; a remarkable man; qualified by nature and attainments to be a leader in new circumstances; fit to take part in the formation of a national literature; as a vindicator of independence in thought, able to establish freedom without disturbing the obligations of law; as a conservative in taste, skilful to keep the tone of the great models with which his studies were familiar, without copying their style; by both capacities successful in developing the one, unchangeable spirit of Art, under a new form and with new effects. In this office of field-marshal of our native forces, General Morris succeeded him under increased advantages, in some respect with higher powers, in a different, and certainly a vastly more extended sphere of influence. The manifold and lasting benefits which, as editor of "The Mirror," General Morris conferred on art and artists of every kind, by his tact, his liberality, the superiority of his judgement, and the vigor of his abilities; by the perseverance and address with which he disciplined a corps of youthful writers, in the presence of a constant and heavy fire from the batteries of foreign criticism; by the rare combination, so valuable in dealing with the numerous aspirants in authorship with whom his position brought him in contact; of a quick, true eye to discern in the modesty of some nameless manuscript the future promises of a power hardly yet conscious of itself; a discretion to guide by sound advice, and a generosity to aid with the most important kind of assistance; the firm and open temper which his example tended to inspire into the relations of literary men with one another throughout the land; and more than all, perhaps, by the harmony and union, of such inappreciable value, especially in the beginning of national effort, between the several sister arts of writing, music, painting, and dramatic exhibition, which the singular variety and discursiveness of his intellectual sympathies led him constantly to maintain and vindicate; these, in the multiplicity of their operation, and the full power of their joint effect, can be perfectly understood only by those who possessed a contemporaneous knowledge of the circumstances, and who, remembering the state of things at the commencement of the period alluded to, and observing what existed at the end of it, are able to look back over the whole interval, and see to what influences and what persons the extraordinary change which has taken place, is to be referred. If, at this moment, the literary genius of America, renewed in youth, and quivering lie the eagle's wings with excess of vigor, seems about to make a new flight, from a higher vantage-ground, into loftier depths of airy distance, the capacity to take that flight must, to a great degree, be ascribed to those two persons whom we have named; without whose services the brighter era which appears now to be dawning, might yet be distant and doubtful.

Besides these particulars of past effort, which ought to make his countrymen love the reputation of the subject of this notice, we regret that our limits forbid us to speak at large of those more intimate qualities of personal value, which, in our judgment, form the genuine lustre of one who, admirable for other attainments, is to be imitated in these.

To us it is an instinctive feeling that a wrong is done to the proper grandeur of our complex nature—that a violence is offered to the higher consciousness of our immortal being—whenever an intellectual quality is extolled tot he neglect of a moral one. Moral excellence is the most real genius; and a temper to cope and calmly baffle the multitudinous assaults of the spiritual enmity of active life, is a talent which outshines all praise of mental endowments. Unhappily, the biographer of literary creators affords few occasions in which a feeling of this kind can be indulged and gratified: that sensibility of mental apprehensions which is the fame of the author, is usually attended by a susceptibility of passionate impression which is the fate of the man; and earth and sense delight to wreak their destructive vengences upon the spiritual nature of him, of whose intellectual being they are the slaves and the sport. In the present instance, we are concerned with the character—'totus, teres, atque rotundus;' which may be looked upon, from every side, with an equal satisfaction. Search the wide world over, and you shall not find among the literary men of any nation, one on whom the dignity of a free and manly spirit sits with a grace more native and familiar—whose spontaneous sentiments have a truer tone of nobleness—the course of whose usual feelings is more expanded and honorable—whose acts, whether common and daily, or deliberate and much-considered, are wont at all times to be more beautifully impressed with those marks of sincerity, of modesty, and of justice, which form the very seal of worth in conduct. Those jealousies, and littlenesses, and envyings, which prey upon the spirits of many men, as the vulture on the heart that chained Prometheus—and whose fierce besetment they who WILL be magnanimous, have to fight off, as one drives away the eagles from their prey, with voice and gestures—seem never to assail him. It is the happiness of his nature to have THAT only absolute deliverance from evil which is implied in being rendered insensible to temptation. While the duty which is laid upon us, in this paper, mainly is to open and set forth his poetic praises and claim the laurel for his literary merits; when the crown of song is to be conferred upon him, we shall interpose to beg that the chaplet may be accompanied by some mark, or some inscription which shall declare,

"This is the reward of moral excellence."

For the success of our special purpose, in this notice, which is to consider and make apparent the specific character which belongs to General Morris as a literary artist and a poetic creator, to explain his claims to that title which the common voice of the country has given to him—of The Song-Writer of America—it would have probably been more judicious had we kept out of view the matters of which we have just spoken. It is recorded of a Grecian painter, that having completed the picture of a sleeping nymph, he added on the foreground the figure of a satyr gazing in amazement upon her beauty; but finding that the secondary form attracted universal praise, he erased it as diverting applause from that which he desired to have regarded as the principal monument of his skill. There is in this anecdote a double wisdom; the world is as little willing to yield to a twofold superiority as it is able to appreciate two distinct objects at once.

In a review of literary reputations, perhaps nothing is fitted to raise more surprise than the obvious inequality in the extend and greatness of the labors to which an equal reward of fame has been allotted. The abounding energy and picturesque variety of Homer are illustrated in eight-and-forty books: the remains of Sappho might be written on the surface of a leaf of the laurus nobilis. Yet if the one expands before us with the magnificent extent, the diversified surface, the endless decorations of the earth itself, the other hangs on high, like a lone, clear star—small but intense—flashing upon us through the night of ages, invested with circumstances of divinity not less unquestionable than those which attend the venerable majesty of the Ancient of Song. The rich and roseate light that shines around the name of Mimnermus, is shed from some dozen or twenty lines: the immortality of Tyrtaeus rests upon a stanza or two, which have floated to us with their precious freight, over the sea of centuries, and will float on unsubmergible by all the waves of Time. The soul of Simonides lives to us in a single couplet; but that is the very stuff of Eternity, which neither fire will assoil, nor tempest peril, nor the wrath of years impair. The Infinite has no degrees; wherever the world sees in any human being the fire of the Everlasting, it bows with equal awe, whether that fire is displayed by only an occasional flash, or by a prolonged and diffusive blaze. There is a certain tone which, hear it when we may, and where we may, we know to be the accents of the gods; and whether its quality be shown in a single utterance, or its volume displayed in a thousand bursts of music, we surround the band of spirits whom we there detect in their mortal disguise, with equal ceremonies of respect and worship, hailing them alike as seraphs of a brighter sphere—sons of the morning. This is natural, and it is reasonable. Genius is not a degree of other qualities, nor is it a particular way or extent of displaying such qualities; it is a faculty by itself; it is a manner, of which we may judge with the same certainty from one exhibition, as from many. The praise of a poet, therefore, is to be determined not by the nature of the work which he undertakes, but by the kind of mastery which he shows; not by the breadth of surface over which he toils, but by the perfectness of the result which he attains. Mr. Wordsworth has vindicated the capacity of the sonnet to be a casket of the richest gems of fame. We have no doubt that the song may give evidence of a genius which shall deserve to be ranked with the constructor of an epic. "Scorn not the SONG." We would go so far, indeed, as to say that success in the song imports, necessarily, a more inborn and genuine gift of poetic conception, than the same proportion of success in other less simple modes of art. There are some sorts of composition which may be wrought out of eager feeling and the foam of excited passions; and which are therefore to a large extent within the reach of earnest sensibilities and an ambitious will; others are the spontaneous outflow of the heart, to whose perfection, turbulence and effort are fatal. Of the latter kind is the song. While the ode allows of exertion and strain, what is done in it must be accomplished by native and inherent strength.

Speaking with that confidence which may not improperly be assumed by one who, having looked with some care at the foundations of the opinion which he expresses, supposes himself able, if called upon by denial, to furnish such demonstration of its truth as the nature of the matter allows of, we say that, in our judgment, there is no professed writer of songs, in this day, who has conceived the true character of this delicate and peculiar creation of art, with greater precision and justness than Mr. Morris, or been more felicitous than he in dealing with the subtle and multiform difficulties that beset its execution. It is well understood by those whose thoughts are used to be conversant with the suggestions of a deeper analysis than belongs to popular criticism, that the forms of literary art are not indefinite in number, variable in their characteristics, or determined by the casual taste or arbitrary will of authors: they exist in nature; they are dependent upon those fixed laws of intellectual being, of spiritual affection, and moral choice, which constitute the rationality of man. And the actual, positive merit of a poetical production—that real merit, which consists in native vitality, in inherent capacity to live—does not lie in the glitter or costliness of the decorations with which it is invested—nor in the force with which it is made to spring from the mind of its creator into the minds of others—nor yet in the scale of magnitude upon which the ideas belonging to the subject are illustrated in the work; but rather, as we suppose, obviously, and in all cases, upon the integrity and truth with which the particular form that has been contemplated by the artist, is brought out, and the distinctness with which that one specific impression which is appropriate to it, is attained. This is the kind of excellence which we ascribe to Mr. Morris; an excellence of a lofty order; genuine, sincere, and incapable of question; more valuable in this class of composition than in any other, because both more important and more difficult. For the song appears to us to possess a definiteness peculiarly jealous and exclusive; to be less flexible in character and to permit less variety of tone than most other classes of composition. If a man shall say, "I will put more force into my song than your model allows, I will charge it with a greater variety of impressions," it is well; if he is skilful, he may make something that is very valuable. But in so far as his work is more than a song, it is not a song. In all works of Art—wherever form is concerned—excess is error.

The just notion and office of the modern song, as we think of it, is to be the embodiment and expression, in beauty, of some one of those sentiments or thoughts, gay, moral, pensive, joyous, or melancholy, which are as natural and appropriate, in particular circumstances, or to certain occasions, as the odor to the flower; rising at such seasons, into the minds of all classes of persons, instinctive and unbidden, yet in obedience to some law of association which it is the gift of the poet to apprehend. Its graceful purpose is to exhibit an incident in the substance of an emotion, to communicate wisdom in the form of sentiment; it is the refracted gleam of some wandering ray from the fair orb of moral truth, which glancing against some occurrence in common life, is surprised into a smile of quick-darting, many colored beauty; it is the airy ripple that is thrown up when the current of feeling in human hearts accidentally encounters the current of thought and bubbles forth with a gentle fret of sparkling foam. Self-evolved, almost, and obedient in its development and shaping to some inward spark of beauty which appears to possess and control its course, it might almost seem that, in the out-going loveliness of such productions, sentiment made substantial in language, floated abroad in natural self-delivery; as that heat which is not yet flame, gives forth in blue wreaths of vaporous grace, which unfold their delicateness for a moment upon the tranquil air, and then vanish away. It is not an artificial structure built up by intellect after a model foreshaped by fancy, or foreshadowed by the instincts of the passions; it is a simple emotion, crystalled into beauty by passing for a moment through the cooler air of the mind; it is merely an effluence of creative vigor; a graceful feeling thickened into words. Its proper dwelling is in the atmosphere of the sentiments, no the passions; it will not, indeed, repel the sympathy of deeper feelings, but knows them rather under the form of the flower that floats upon the surface of meditation, than of the deeper root that lies beneath its stream. And this is the grievous fault of nearly all Lord Byron's melodies; that he pierces them too profoundly, and passes below the region of grace, charging his lyre with far more vehemence of passion than its slight strings are meant to bear. The beauty which belongs to this production, should be in the form of the thought rather than the fashion of the setting: that genuineness and simplicity of character which constitute almost its essence, are destroyed by any appearance of the cold artifices of construction, palpable springs set for our admiration, whereby the beginning is obviously arranged in reference to a particular ending. This is the short-reaching power of Moore—guilty, by design, of that departure from simplicity, by which he fascinated one generation at the expense of being forgotten by another. The song, while it is general in its impression, should be particular in its occasion; not an abstraction of the mind, but a definite feeling, special to some certain set of circumstances. Rising from out the surface of daily experience, like the watery issuings of a fountain, it throws itself upward for a moment, then descends in a soft, glittering shower to the level whence it rose. Herein resides the chief defect of Bayly's songs; that they are too general and vague—a species of pattern songs—being embodiments of some general feeling, or reflection, but lacking that sufficient reference to some season or occurrence which would justify their appearing, and take away from them the aspect of pretension and display.

The only satisfactory method of criticism is by means of clinical lectures; and we feel regret that our limits do not suffer us—to any great degree—to illustrate what we deem the vigorous simplicity, and genuine grace of Mr. Morris, by that mode of exposition. We must refer to a few cases, however, to show what we have been meaning in the remarks which we made above, upon the proper character of the song. The ballad of "Woodman, spare that tree"—one of those accidents of genius which, however, never happen but to consummate artists—is so familiar to every mind and heart, as to resent citation. Take, then, "My Mother's Bible." We know of no similar production in a truer taste, in a purer style, or more distinctly marked with the character of a good school of composition. Or take "We were boys together." In manly pathos, in tenderness and truth, where shall it be excelled? "The Miniature" posses the captivating elegance of Voiture. "Where Hudson's Wave" is a glorious burst of poetry, modulated into refinement by the hand of a master. Where will you find a nautical song, seemingly more spontaneous in its genial outbreak, really more careful in its construction, than "Land-ho!" How full of the joyous madness of absolute independence, yet made harmonious by instinctive grace, is "Life in the West!" That the same heart whose wild pulse is thrilled by the adventurous interests of the huntsman and the wanderer, can beat in unison with the gentlest truth of deep devotion, is shown in "When other Friends are round Thee." "I love the Night" has the voluptuous elegance of the Spanish models. Were we to meet the lines "Oh, think of me!" in an anthology, we should suppose they were Suckling's—so admirably is the tone of feeling kept down to the limit of probable sincerity—which is a characteristic that the cavalier style of courting never loses. "The Star of Love" might stand as a selected specimen of all that is most exquisite in the songs of the "Trouveurs." "The Seasons of Love" is a charming effusion of gay, yet thoughtful sentiment. The song, "I never have been false to thee," is, of itself, sufficient to establish General Morris's fame as a great poet—as a "potens magister affectuum"—and as a literary creator of a high order. It is a thoroughly fresh and effective poem on a subject as hackneyed as the highway; it is as deep as truth itself, yet light as the movement of a dance. We had almost forgotten, what the world will never forget, the matchless softness and transparent delicacy of "Near the Lake." Those lines, of themselves, unconsciously, court "the soft promoter of the poet's strain," and almost seem about to break into music. It is agreeable to find that, instead of being seduced into a false style by the excessive popularity which many of his songs have acquired, General Morris's later efforts are in a vein even more truly classic than his earlier ones, and show a decided advance, both in power and ease. "The Rock of the Pilgrims," and the "Indian Songs," are a very clear evidence of this. We would willingly go on with our references, as there are several which have equal claims with these upon our notice, but—"claudite jam rivos."

Such are some of the compositions, original in style, natural in spirit, beautiful with the charm of almost faultless execution, which may challenge for their author the title of the lauraete of America....

A writer in "Howitt's and the People's Journal" furnishes the following sketch of General Morris and his Songs, which was copied and endorsed by the late Dr. Rufus W. Griswold, in his International Magazine:—

"Before us lies a heap of songs and ballads, the production of the rich fancy and warm heart of George P. Morris. Not many weeks since, at a public meeting in London, a gentleman claimed to be heard speak on the ground of his connection with the public press from the time when he was seven years of age. We will not undertake to say that General Morris ran his juvenile fingers over the chords of the lyre at so very early a period; but it is certain he tried his hand at writing for the newspapers when he was yet but a mere boy. While in his teens, he was a constant contributor to various periodicals. Many of his articles attracted notice. He began to acquire a literary reputation; and at length, in 1823, being then in his twentieth year, he became editor of the 'New York Mirror.' This responsible post he continued to hold until the termination of the paper's existence in 1834.

"Morris accomplished an infinity of good in the twenty years during which he wielded the editorial pen. Perhaps no other man in the United States was so well qualified for the noble task he set himself at the outset of his career as editor. American literature was in its infancy, and subject to all the weaknesses of that period. Morris resolved to do his utmost toward forming a character for it, and looked abroad anxiously for such as could aid him in his endeavor. The 'Mirror" will ever be fondly remembered by the American literary man, for it has been the cradle of American genius.

"To him a writer in 'Graham's Magazine' attributes the present flourishing condition and bright prospects of transatlantic literature. He evidently possesses a personal knowledge of General Morris, and discourses right eloquently in his praise. Nor do we think that he overrates his merits in the least. From other sources we have ourselves learned much of the genial nature of George P. Morris, and his gigantic labors as a literary pioneer. Considering its juvenility as a nation, republican America, indeed, has been amazingly prolific of good writers. The large share Morris has had in awakening the latent talent of his countrymen, must ever be to him a high source of gratulation. And then, as an original writer, he has won for himself a high place among literary Americans; he is, in fact, known throughout the States as 'The Songwriter of America;' and we have the authority of Willis for stating that 'ninety-nine people out of a hundred—take them as they come in the census—would find more to admire in Morris's Songs than in the writings of any other American poet.' Willis also tells us, as proof of the General's popularity with those shrewd dollar-loving men, the publishers, that 'he can, at any time, obtain fifty dollars for a song unread, when the whole remainder of the American Parnassus could not sell one to the same buyer for a single shilling!' He is the best-known poet of the country by acclamation—not by criticism.

"Morris seems to have had juster notions of what was required in a song than many who have achieved celebrity as song-writers in England. 'The just office and notion of the modern song' has been defined to be, the embodiment and expression in beauty of some thought or sentiment—gay, pensive, moral, or sentimental—which is as natural and appropriate in certain circumstances as the odor to the flower. Its graceful purpose is to exhibit an incident in the substance of an emotion, to communicate wisdom in the form of sentiment. A song should be the embodiment of some general feeling, and have reference to some season or occurrence.

"It is not a difficult thing to make words rhyme; some of the most unimaginative intellects we ever knew could do so with surprising facility. It is rare to find a sentimental miss or a lackadaisical master who cannot accomplish this INTELLECTUAL feat, with the help of Walker's Rhyming Dictionary. As for love, why, every one writes about it now-a-days. There is such an abhorrence of the simple Saxon—such an outrageous running after outlandish phraseology—that we wonder folks are satisfied with this plain term.

"We wonder they do not seek for an equivalent in high Dutch or in low Dutch, in Hungarian, or in Hindostanee. We wish they would, with all our heart and soul. We have no objection, provided the heart be touched, that a head should produce a little of the stuff called 'nonsense verses'—that this article should be committed to scented note-paper, and carefully sealed up with skewered hearts of amazing corpulence. God forbid that we should be thought guilty of a sneer at real affection!—far from it; such ever commands our reverence. But we do not find it in the noisy tribe of goslings green who would fain be thought of the nightingale species. Did the reader ever contemplate a child engaged in the interesting operation of sucking a lollipop?—we assure him that that act was dictated by quite as much of true sentiment as puts in action the fingers and wits of the generality of our young amatory poetasters.

"We know of none who have written more charmingly of love than George P. Morris. Would to Apollo that our rhymsters would condescend to read carefully his poetical effusions! But they contain no straining after effect—no extravagant metaphors—no driveling conceits; and so there is little fear of their being taken as models by those gentlemen. Let the reader mark the surprising excellence of the love songs; their perfect naturalness; the quiet beauty of the similes; the fine blending of graceful thought and tender feeling which characterize them. Morris is, indeed, the poet of home joys. None have described more eloquently the beauty and dignity of true affection—of passion based upon esteem; and his fame is certain to endure while the Anglo-Saxon woman has a hearthstone over which to repeat her most cherished household words.

"Seldom have the benign effects of the passion been more felicitously painted than in the 'Seasons of Love'; and what simple tenderness is contained in the ballad of 'We were boys together.' Every word in that beautiful melody comes home to the heart of him whose early days have been happy. God help those in whom this poem awakens no fond remembrances!—those whose memories it does not get wandering up the stream of life, toward its source; beholding at every step the sun smiling more brightly, the heavens assuming a deeper hue, the grass a fresher green, and the flowers a sweeter perfume. How wondrous are not its effects upon ourselves! The wrinkles have disappeared from our brow, and the years from our shoulder, and the marks of the branding-iron of experience from our heart; and again we are a careless child, gathering primroses, and chasing butterflies, and drinking spring-water from out the hollow of our hands. Around us are the hedges 'with golden gorse bright blossoming, as none blossom now-a-day.' We have heard of death, but we know not what it is; and the word CHANGE has no meaning for us; and summer and winter, and seed-time and harvest, has each its unutterable joys. Alas! we can never remain long in this happy dream-land. Nevertheless, we have profited greatly by the journey. The cowslips and violets gathered by us in childhood, shall be potent in the hour of temptation; and the cap of rushes woven for us by kind hands in days gone by, shall be a surer defence than a helmet of steel in the hour of battle. No, no; we will never disgrace our antecedents.

"There is one quality in his songs to which we can not but direct attention—and this is their almost feminine purity. The propensities have had their laureates; and genius, alas! has often defiled its angel wings by contact with the sensual and the impure; but Morris has never attempted to robe vice in beauty; and as has been well remarked, his lays can bring to the cheek of purity no blush save that of pleasure."

The following letter, from the pen of Grace Greenwood, is a lady's tribute to the genius of the poet:—

"I have read of late, with renewed pleasure and higher appreciation, the songs and ballads of our genial-hearted countryman, Morris. I had previously worried myself by a course of rather dry reading, and his poetry, tender, musical, fresh, and natural, came to me like spring's first sunshine, the song of her first birds, the breath of her first violets.

"What a contrast is this pleasant volume to the soul-racking "Festus," which has been one of my recent passions. That remarkable work has passages of great beauty and power, linked in unnatural marriage with much that is poor and weak. It is like a stately ruined palace,

'Mingling its marble with the dust of Rome;'

or it is like its own fabled first temple built to God, in the new earth—a multitude of gems, swallowed by an earthquake, and scattered through a world of baser matter. The soul of the reader now faints with excess of beauty, now shudders at the terrible and the revolting. the young poet's muse at times goes like Proserpine to gather flowers, but straightway is seized by the lord of the infernal regions, and disappears in flame and darkness. The entire volume is a poetical Archipelago—isles of loveliness sprinkling a dead sea of unprofitable matter.

"It were absurd to compare the light and graceful poems of Morris with the work "Festus"—a simple Grecian arch with a stupendous Turkish mosque—an Etruscan vase with a Gothic tower. Yet there are doubtless many who will prefer the perfect realization of modest aspirations, to grand, but ineffectual graspings after glory's highest and most divine guerdons—a quiet walk with truth and nature, to an Icarus flight of magnificent absurdities.

"It has been said that the author of 'Long time ago' has rung too many changes on the sentiment and passion of LOVE. Love, the inspiration of the glorious bards of old,

'Who play upon the heart as on a harp, And make our eyes bright as we speak of them;'

'love ever-new, everlasting, fresh, and beautiful, now as when the silence of young Eden was thrilled, but scarce broken, by the voice of the first lover—a joy and a source of joy for ever.'

"I know it is much the fashion now-a-days, to hold in lordly contempt many of those sweet and holy influences which are—

'As angel hands, enclosing ours, Leading us back to Paradisean bowers.'

"Love and liberty are fast becoming mere abstractions to the enlightened apprehension of some modern wise men. It is sad to see how soon those white-winged visitors soil their plumage and change their very nature by a mere descent into the philosophic atmosphere of such mind. One is reminded of the words of Swedenborg—'I saw a great truth let down from heaven into hell, and it THERE BECAME A LIE.'

"This cynical objection to the lays of our minstrel, surely never could have emanated from the heart of WOMAN. SHE is ever loyal to love—that tender and yearning principle in the bosom of the Father, from which and by which the feminine nature was created.

"The poems of Morris are indeed like those flowers of old, born of the blood-drops which oozed from the wounded foot of the queen of love—blushing crimson to the very heart; yet there is not, to my knowledge, in the whole range of English literature, so large a collection of amatory songs in which sensualism and voluptuousness find no voice. These lays can bring to the cheek of purity no blush, save that of pleasure—the mother may sing them to her child, the bride to her young husband.

"'Festus' has an eloquent reply to such as hold love a theme unworthy the true bard:—

'Poets are all who love—who feel great truths, And tell them; and the truth of truths is LOVE.'

"The muse of Morris was Poesy's own 'summer child.' Hope, love, and happiness, sunny-winged fancies and golden-hued imaginings, have nested in his heart like birds.

"His verse does not cause one to tremble and turn pale—it charms and refreshes. It does not 'posses us like a passion'—it steals upon us like a spell. It does not storm the heart like an armed host—it is like the visitation of gentle spirits,

'Coming and going with a musical lightness.'

It is not a turbulent mountain-torrent, hurling itself down rocky places—it is a silver stream, gliding through quiet valleys, in whose waves the sweet stars are mirrored, on whose bosom the water-lilies sleep.

"Now and then there steals in a strain of sadness, like the plaint of a bereaved bird in a garden of roses; but it is a tender, not an OPPRESIVE sadness, and we know that the rainbow beauty of the verse could only be born in the wedlock of smiles and tears. In a word, his lays are not 'night and storm and darkness'—they are morning and music and sunshine.

"It were idle at this time to quote or comment upon all those songs of Morris best known and oftenest sung. It would be introducing to my readers old friends who took lodgings in their memories 'long time ago.' In reference to them, I would only remark their peculiar adaptedness to popular taste, the keen discrimination, the nice tact, or, to use one of Sir James Mackintosh's happy expressions, the 'FEELosophy' with which the poet has interlaced them with the heart-strings of a nation.

"'A Rock in the Wilderness' is an ode that any poet might be proud to own. It is much in the style of Campbell—chaste, devotional, 'beautiful exceedingly.' I know nothing of the kind more musically sweet than the serenade ''Tis now the promised hour'—the first line in especial—

'The fountains serenade the flowers, Upon their silver lute— And nestled in their leafy bowers, The forest birds are mute.'

"Many an absent lover must have blessed our lyrist for giving voice to his own yearning affection, half sad with that delicate jealousy which is no wrong to the loved one, in the song 'When other friends are round thee.'

"'The Bacchanal'—if our language boasts a lovelier ballad than this, it has never met my eye. The story of the winning, the betraying and the breaking of a woman's heart, was never told more touchingly. 'The Dismissed' is in a peculiar vein of rich and quiet humor. I would commend it to the entire class of rejected lovers as containing the truest philosophy. 'Lines after the manner of the olden time' remind one of Sir John Suckling. They are 'sunned o'er with love'—their subject, by the way. 'I never have been false to thee' was an emanation from the FEMININE nature of the minstrel alone. Who does not believe the poet gifted with duality of soul? 'Think of me, my own beloved,' and 'Rosabel,' are the throbbings of a lover's breast, set to music; and 'One balmy summer night, Mary,' 'The heart that owns thy tyrant sway,' and 'When I was in my teens,' the distillation of the subtlest sweets lodged in the innermost cells of all flowers dedicated to love.

"I come now to my favorite, 'Where Hudson's wave;' a poem which I never read but that it glows upon my lip and heart, and leaves the air of my thoughts tremulous with musical vibrations. What a delicious gush of parental feeling! How daintily and delicately move the 'fitly chose words,' tripping along like silver sandaled fairies.

"'Land-Ho!' and the 'Western Refrain' thrill one gloriously. 'The Cottager's Welcome' would of itself carry the poet's name to the next age, and the 'Croton Ode' keep his bays green with a perpetual baptism. The last-mentioned is fresh and sparkling as its subject, and displays much of the imaginative faculty.

"'Oh, a merry life does the hunter lead,' rolled up the tenth wave of Morris-ian popularity at the West. It stirs the hunter's heart like a bugle blast—it rings out clear as a rifle-crack on a hunting morning.

"General Morris has recently published some songs, which have all the grace, melody, and touching sweetness of his earlier lays. But as these have been artistically set to music, and are yet in the first season of popularity—are lying on the pianos and 'rolling over the bright lip' of all song-dom, they call for no further mention here.

"I think I cannot better close this somewhat broken and imperfect notice, than by referring to one of the earlier songs of Morris, which, more than all others, perhaps, has endeared him to his native land. 'Home from travel' is a simple, hearty, manly embodiment of the true spirit of patriotism, a sentiment which throbs like a strong pulse beneath our poet's light and graceful verse, and needs but the inspiration of 'stirring times' to prompt to deeds of heroic valor, like the lays of the ancient bards, or the 'Chansons' of Beranger."

The biography of Morris would not be complete without a word from Willis. We have a dash of his pencil in the following letter to the editor of "Graham's Magazine":—

"My Dear Sir: To ask me for my idea of General Morris, is like asking the left hand's opinion of the dexterity of the right. I have lived so long with the 'Brigadier'—know him so intimately—worked so constantly at the same rope, and thought so little of ever separating from him (except by precedence of ferriage over the Styx), that it is hard to shove him from me to the perspective distance—hard to shut my own partial eyes, and look at him through other people's. I will try, however; and, as it is done with but one foot off from the treadmill of my ceaseless vocation, you will excuse both abruptness and brevity.

"Morris is the best-known poet of the country, by acclamation, not by criticism. He is just what poets would be if they sang, like birds, without criticism; and it is a peculiarity of his fame, that it seems as regardless of criticism, as a bird in the air. Nothing can stop a song of his. It is very easy to say that they are easy to do. They have a momentum, somehow, that it is difficult for others to give, and that speeds them to the far goal of popularity—the best proof consisting in the fact that he can, at any moment, get fifty dollars for a song unread, when the whole remainder of the American Parnassus could not sell one to the same buyer for a shilling.

"It may, or may not, be one secret of his popularity, but it is the truth—that Morris's heart is at the level of most other people's, and his poetry flows out by that door. He stands breast-high in the common stream of sympathy, and the fine oil of his poetic feeling goes from him upon an element it is its nature to float upon, and which carries it safe to other bosoms, with little need of deep diving or high flying. His sentiments are simple, honest, truthful, and familiar; his language is pure and eminently musical, and he is prodigally full of the poetry of every-day feeling. These are days when poets try experiments; and while others succeed by taking the world's breath away with flights and plunges, Morris uses his feet to walk quietly with nature. Ninety-nine people in a hundred, taken as they come in the census, would find more to admire in Morris's songs, than in the writings of any other American poet; and that is a parish in the poetical episcopate, well worthy a wise man's nurture and prizing.

"As for the man—Morris, my friend—I can hardly venture to 'burn incense on his moustache,' as the French say—write his praises under his very nose—but as far off as Philadelphia, you may pay the proper tribute to his loyal nature and manly excellencies. His personal qualities have made him universally popular; but this overflow upon the world does not impoverish him for his friends. I have outlined a true poet, and a fine fellow—fill up the picture to your liking. Yours, very truly,

"N. P. Willis."

In 1825, General Morris wrote the drama of "Briercliff," a play, in five acts, founded upon events of the American Revolution. It was performed forty nights in succession; and the manager paid him for it $3,500—a solid proof of its attractive popularity. It has never been published. Prior, and subsequent to this period, his pen was actively engaged upon various literary and dramatic works.

He wrote a number of the "Welcomes to Lafayette," and songs and ballads, which were universally popular, besides many prologues and addresses.

In 1842, he wrote an opera for Mr. C. E. Horn, called the "Maid of Saxony," which was performed fourteen nights, with great success, at the Park Theatre. The press of the city, generally, awarded to this opera the highest commendation.

From the period when General Morris commenced his career as a writer, his pen has been constantly employed in writing poems, songs, ballads, and prose sketches.

In 1840, the Appletons published an edition of his poems, beautifully illustrated by Weir & Chapman; in 1842, Paine & Burgess published his songs and ballads; and in 1853, Scribner's edition, illustrated by Weir and Darley, appeared. This last beautiful work has had an immense sale.

They were highly commended by the press throughout the country, and these and other editions have had large sales. A portion of his prose writings, under the title of "The Little Frenchman and his Water-Lots," were published by Lea & Blanchard, which edition has been followed by others, enlarged by the author.

General Morris has edited a number of works; among them are the "Atlantic Club Book," published by the Harpers; "The Song-Writers of America," by Linen & Ferin; "National Melodies," by Horn & Davis; and, in connection with Mr. Willis, "The Prose and Poetry of Europe and America," a standard work of great value.

In 1844, in connection with Mr. Willis, he established a beautiful weekly paper, called the "New Mirror," which, in consequence of the cover and engravings, was taxed by the post-office department a postage equal to the subscription price; and not being able to obtain a just reduction from Mr. Wickliffe, then post-master-general, the proprietors discontinued its publication, after a year and a half, notwithstanding it had attained a circulation of ten thousand copies.

The daily "Evening Mirror" was next commenced, and continued for one year by Morris & Willis.

A few months after withdrawing from the "Evening Mirror," General Morris began the publication of the "National Press and Home Journal;" but as many mistook its object from its name, the first part of its title was discontinued; and in November, 1846 (Mr. Willis having again joined his old friend and associate), appeared the first number of the "Home Journal," a weekly paper, published in New York every Saturday, which is edited with taste, spirit, and ability, and which has a circulation of many thousand copies.

General Morris is still in the prime and vigor of life, and it is not unlikely that the public will yet have much to admire from his pen, and which will, without doubt, place him still higher in the niche of fame. His residence is chiefly at Undercliff, his country seat, on the banks of the Hudson, near Cold Spring, surrounded by the most lovely and beautiful scenery in nature, which can not fail to keep the muse alive within him, and tune the minstrel to further and still higher efforts.

Although he possesses abilities which eminently qualify him for public station, his literary taste and habits have, in spite of the strenuous solicitations of his friends, led him to prefer the retirement of private life. This, however, does not prevent his taking an active interest in all questions of public good; and the city of New York is greatly indebted to his vigorous aid for many of her most beautiful and permanent improvements.

We can not close this sketch without adverting to the following incident, which occurred in the British House of Commons:—

"Mr. Cagley, a member from Yorkshire," says the "London Times," "Concluded a long speech in favor of protection, by quoting the ballad of 'Woodman, spare that tree' (which was received with applause of the whole house), the 'tree' according to Mr. Cagley, being the 'Constitution,' and Sir Robert Peel the 'woodman,' about to cut it down."

What poet could desire a more gratifying compliment to his genius?



Poems and Ballads.



Poems.



The Deserted Bride. [See Notes]

Suggested by a scene in the play of the hunchback.

Inscribed to James Sheridan Knowles.



"Love me!—No.—He never loved me!" Else he'd sooner die than stain One so fond as he has proved me With the hollow world's disdain. False one, go—my doom is spoken, And the spell that bound me broken.

Wed him!—Never.—He has lost me!— Tears!—Well, let them flow!—His bride? No.—The struggle life may cost me! But he'll find that I have pride! Love is not an idle flower, Blooms and dies the self-same hour.

Title, land, and broad dominion, With himself to me he gave; Stooped to earth his spirit's pinion, And became my willing slave! Knelt and prayed until he won me— Looks he coldly upon me?

Ingrate!—Never sure was maiden Deeply wronged as I. With grief My true breast is overladen— Tears afford me no relief— Every nerve is strained and aching, And my very heart is breaking!

Love I him?—Thus scorned and slighted— Thrown, like worthless weed, apart— Hopes and feelings seared and blighted— Love him?—Yes, with all my heart! With a passion superhuman— Constancy, "thy name is woman."

Love, nor time, nor mood, can fashion— Love?—Idolatry's the word To speak the broadest, deepest passion, Ever woman's heart hath stirred! Vain to still the mind's desires, Which consume like hidden fires!

Wrecked and wretched, lost and lonely, Crushed by grief's oppressive weight With a prayer for Clifford only, I resign me to my fate. Chains that bind the soul I've proven Strong as they were iron woven.

Deep the wo that fast is sending From my cheek its healthful bloom; Sad my thoughts as willows bending O'er the borders of the tomb! Without Clifford, not a blessing In the world is worth possessing.

Wealth!—a straw within the balance Opposed to love, 'twill strike the beam: Kindred, friendship, beauty, talents?— All to love as nothing seem; Weigh love against all else together, And solid gold against a feather.

Hope is flown—away disguises Naught but death relief can give— For the love he little prizes Can not cease, and Julia live! Soon my thread of life will sever— Clifford, fare thee well—for ever!



The Main-Truck; Or, A Leap for Life

A Nautical Ballad.

[Founded upon a well-known tale from the pen of the late William Leggett, Esq.]



Old Ironsides at anchor lay, In the harbor of Mahon; A dead calm rested on the bay— The waves to sleep had gone; When little Jack, the captain's son, With gallant hardihood, Climbed shroud and spar—and then upon The main-truck rose and stood!

A shudder ran through every vein— All eyes were turned on high! There stood the boy, with dizzy brain, Between the sea and sky! No hold had he above—below, Alone he stood in air! At that far height none dared to go— No aid could reach him there.

We gazed—but not a man could speak!— With horror all aghast In groups, with pallid brow and cheek, We watched the quivering mast. The atmosphere grew thick and hot, And of a lurid hue, As, riveted unto the spot, Stood officers and crew.

The father came on deck—He gasped, "O, God, Thy will be done!" Then suddenly a rifle grasped, And aimed it at his son! "Jump far out, boy! into the wave! Jump, or I fire!" he said: "That only chance your life can save! Jump—jump, boy!"—He obeyed.

He sank—he rose—he lived—he moved— He for the ship struck out! On board we hailed the lad beloved With many a manly shout. His father drew, in silent joy, Those wet arms round his neck, Then folded to his heart the boy And fainted on the deck!



Poetry.



To me the world's an open book Of sweet and pleasant poetry; I read it in the running brook That sings its way toward the sea. It whispers in the leaves of trees, The swelling grain, the waving grass, And in the cool, fresh evening breeze That crisps the wavelets as they pass.

The flowers below, the stars above, In all their bloom and brightness given, Are, like the attributes of love, The poetry of earth and heaven. Thus Nature's volume, read aright, Attunes the soul to minstrelsy, Tinging life's clouds with rosy light, And all the world with poetry.



The Croton Ode. [See Notes]

Written at the request of the corporation of the city of New York.



Gushing from this living fountain, Music pours a falling strain, As the goddess of the mountain Comes with all her sparkling train. From her grotto-springs advancing, Glittering in her feathery spray, Woodland fays beside her dancing, She pursues her winding way.

Gently o'er the rippling water, In her coral-shallop bright, Glides the rock-king's dove-eyed daughter, Decked in robes of virgin white. Nymphs and naiads, sweetly smiling, Urge her bark with pearly hand, Merrily the sylph beguiling From the nooks of fairy-land.

Swimming on the snow-curled billow, See the river-spirits fair Lay their cheeks, as on a pillow, With the foam-beads in their hair. Thus attended, hither wending, Floats the lovely oread now, Eden's arch of promise bending Over her translucent brow.

Hail the wanderer from a far land! Bind her flowing tresses up! Crown her with a fadeless garland, And with crystal brim the cup. From her haunts of deep seclusion, Let intemperance greet her too, And the heat of his delusion Sprinkle with this mountain-dew.

Water leaps as if delighted, While her conquered foes retire! Pale Contagion flies affrighted With the baffled demon Fire! Safety dwells in her dominions, Health and Beauty with her move, And entwine their circling pinions In a sisterhood of love.

Water shouts a glad hosanna! Bubbles up the earth to bless! Cheers it like the precious manna In the barren wilderness. Here we wondering gaze, assembled Like the grateful Hebrew band, When the hidden fountain trembled, And obeyed the prophet's wand.

Round the aqueducts of story, As the mists of Lethe throng, Croton's waves in all their glory Troop in melody along. Ever sparkling, bright, and single, Will this rock-ribbed stream appear, When posterity shall mingle Like the gathered waters here.



Fragment of an Indian Poem.



* * * * * *

They come!—Be firm—in silence rally! The long-knives our retreat have found! Hark!—their tramp is in the valley, And they hem the forest round! The burdened boughs with pale scouts quiver, The echoing hills tumultuous ring, While across the eddying river Their barks, like foaming war-steeds, spring! The blood-hounds darken land and water; They come—like buffaloes for slaughter!

See their glittering ranks advancing, See upon the free winds dancing Pennon proud and gaudy plume. The strangers come in evil hour, In pomp, and panoply, and power! But, while upon our tribes they lower, Think they our manly hearts will cower To meet a warrior's doom?

Right they forget while strength they feel; Our veins they drain, our land they steal; And should the vanquished Indian kneel, They spurn him from their sight! Be set for ever in disgrace The glory of the red-man's race, If from the foe we turn our face, Or safety seek in flight!

They come—Up, and upon them braves! Fight for your alters and your graves! Drive back the stern, invading slaves, In fight till now victorious! Like lightning from storm-clouds on high, The hurtling, death-winged arrows fly, And wind-rows of pale warriors die!— Oh! never was the sun's bright eye Looked from his hill-tops in the sky Upon a field so glorious!

* * * * * *

They're gone—again the red-men rally; With dance and song the woods resound: The hatchet's buried in the valley; No foe profanes our hunting-ground! The green leaves on the blithe boughs quiver, The verdant hills with song-birds ring, While our bark-canoes the river Skim like swallows on the wing. Mirth pervades the land and water, Free from famine, sword, and slaughter.

* * * * * *

Let us, by this gentle river, Blunt the axe and break the quiver, While, as leaves upon the spray, Peaceful flow our cares away.

* * * * * *

Yet, alas! the hour is brief Left for either joy or grief! All on earth that we inherit From the hands of the Great Spirit— Wigwam, hill, plain, lake, and field— To the white-man must we yield; For, like sun-down on the waves, We are sinking to our graves!

From this wilderness of wo Like the caravan we go, Leaving all our groves and streams For the far-off land of dreams. There are prairies waving high, Boundless as the sheeted sky, Where our fathers' spirits roam, And the red-man has a home.

Let tradition tell our story. As we fade in cloudless glory, As we seek the land of rest Beyond the borders of the west, No eye but ours may look upon— WE ARE THE CHILDREN OF THE SUN.

* * * * * *



Land-Ho!



UP, UP WITH THE SIGNAL!—The land is in sight! We'll be happy, if never again, boys, to-night! The cold cheerless ocean in safety we've passed, And the warm genial earth glads our vision at last. In the land of the stranger true hearts we shall find, To soothe us in absence of those left behind. Land!—land-ho!—All hearts glow with joy at the sight! We'll be happy, if never again, boys, to-night!

THE SIGNAL IS WAVING!—Till morn we'll remain, Then part in the hope to meet one day again! Round the hearth-stone of home in the land of our birth, The holiest spot on the face of the earth! Dear country! our thoughts are as constant to thee As the steel to the star, or the stream to the sea. Ho!—land-ho!—We near it!—We bound at the sight! Then be happy, if never again, boys, to-night!

THE SIGNAL IS ANSWERED!—The foam-sparkles rise Like tears from the fountain of joy to the eyes! May rain-drops that fall from the storm-clouds of care, Melt away in the sun-beaming smiles of the fair! One health, as chime gaily the nautical bells: To woman—God bless her!—wherever she dwells! THE PILOT'S ON BOARD!—thank heaven, all's right! So be happy, if never again, boys, to-night!



Woodman, Spare that Tree! [See Notes]



Woodman, spare that tree! Touch not a single bough! In youth it sheltered me, And I'll protect it now. 'Twas my forefather's hand That placed it near his cot; There, woodman, let it stand, Thy axe shall harm it not.

That old familiar tree, Whose glory and renown Are spread o'er land and sea— And wouldst thou hew it down? Woodman, forebear thy stroke! Cut not its earth-bound ties; Oh, spare that aged oak, Now towering to the skies!

When but an idle boy, I sought its grateful shade; In all their gushing joy Here, too, my sisters played. My mother kissed me here; My father pressed my hand— Forgive this foolish tear, But let that old oak stand.

My heart-strings round thee cling, Close as thy bark, old friend! Here shall the wild-bird sing, And still thy branches bend. Old tree! the storm still brave! And, woodman, leave the spot; While I've a hand to save, thy axe shall harm it not.



The Cottager's Welcome.



Hard by I've a cottage that stands near the wood— A stream glides in peace at the door— Where all who will tarry, 'tis well understood, Receive hospitality's store. To cheer that the brook and the thicket afford, The stranger we ever invite: You're welcome to freely partake at the board, And afterwards rest for the night.

The birds in the morning will sing from the trees, And herald the young god of day; Then, with him uprising, depart if you please— We'll set you refreshed on the way: You're coin for our service we sternly reject; No traffic for gain we pursue, And all the reward that we wish or expect We take in the good that we do.

Mankind are all pilgrims on life's weary road, And many would wander astray In seeking Eternity's silent abode, Did Mercy not point out the way! If all would their duty discharge as they should To those who are friendless and poor, The world would resemble my cot near the wood, And life the sweet stream at my door.



The Land of Washington.



I glory in the sages Who, in the days of yore, In combat met the foemen, And drove them from our shore. Who flung our banner's starry field In triumph to the breeze, And spread broad maps of cities where Once waved the forest-trees. —Hurrah!—

I glory in the spirit Which goaded them to rise And found a might nation Beneath the western skies. No clime so bright and beautiful As that where sets the sun; No land so fertile, fair, and free, As that of Washington —Hurrah!—



The Flag of our Union.



"A song for our banner?"—The watchword recall Which gave the Republic her station: "United we stand—divided we fall!"— It made and preserves us a nation! The union of lakes—the union of lands— The union of States none can sever— The union of hearts—the union of hands— And the Flag of the Union for ever And ever! The Flag of our Union for ever!

What God in his mercy and wisdom designed, And armed with his weapons of thunder, Not all the earth's despots and factions combined Have the power to conquer or sunder! The union of lakes—the union of lands— The union of states none can sever— The union of hearts—the union of hands— And the Flag of the Union for ever And ever! The Flag of our Union for ever!

Oh, keep that flag flying!—The pride of the van! To all other nations display it! The ladies for union are all to a—MAN! But not to the man who'd betray it. Then the union of lakes—the union of lands— The union of states none can sever— The union of hearts—the union of hands— And the Flag of the Union for ever And ever! The Flag of our Union for ever!



Lines

After the Manner of the Olden Time.



O Love! the mischief thou hast done! Thou god of pleasure and of pain!— None can escape thee—yes there's one— All others find the effort vain: Thou cause of all my smiles and tears! Thou blight and bloom of all my years!

Love bathes him in the morning dews, Reclines him in the lily bells, Reposes in the rainbow hues, And sparkles in the crystal wells, Or hies him to the coral-caves, Where sea-nymphs sport beneath the waves.

Love vibrates in the wind-harp's tune— With fays and oreads lingers he— Gleams in th' ring of the watery moon, Or treads the pebbles of the sea. Love rules "the court, the camp, the grove"— Oh, everywhere we meet thee, Love!

And everywhere he welcome finds, From cottage-door to palace-porch— Love enters free as spicy winds, With purple wings and lighted torch, With tripping feet and silvery tongue, And bow and darts behind him slung.

He tinkles in the shepherd's bell The village maiden leans to hear— By lattice high he weaves his spell, For lady fair and cavalier: Like sun-bursts on the mountain snow, Love's genial warmth melts high and low.

Then why, ye nymphs Arcadian, why— Since Love is general as the air— Why does he not to Lelia fly, And soften the obdurate fair? Scorn nerves her proud, disdainful heart! She scoffs at Love and all his art!

Oh, boy-god, Love!—An archer thou!— Thy utmost skill I fain would test; One arrow aim at Lelia now, And let thy target be her breast! Her heart bind in thy captive train, Or give me back my own again!



The Dream of Love.



I've had the heart-ache many times, At the mere mention of a name I've never woven in my rhymes, Though from it inspiration came. It is in truth a holy thing, Life-cherished from the world apart— A dove that never tries its wing, But broods and nestles in the heart.

That name of melody recalls Her gentle look and winning ways Whose portrait hangs on memory's walls, In the fond light of other days. In the dream-land of Poetry, Reclining in its leafy bowers, Her bright eyes in the stars I see, And her sweet semblance in the flowers.

Her artless dalliance and grace— The joy that lighted up her brow— The sweet expression of her face— Her form—it stands before me now! And I can fancy that I hear The woodland songs she used to sing, Which stole to my attending ear, Like the first harbingers of spring.

The beauty of the earth was hers, And hers the purity of heaven; Alone, of all her worshippers, To me her maiden vows were given. They little know the human heart, Who think such love with time expires; Once kindled, it will ne'er depart, But burn through life with all its fires.

We parted—doomed no more to meet— The blow fell with a stunning power— And yet my pulse will strangely beat At the remembrance of that hour! But time and change their healing brought, And years have passed in seeming glee, But still alone of her I've thought Who's now a memory to me.

There may be many who will deem This strain a wayward, youthful folly, To be derided as a dream Born of the poet's melancholy. The wealth of worlds, if it were mine, With all that follows in its train, I would with gratitude resign, To dream that dream of love again.



I'm With You Once Again.



I'm with you once again, my friends, No more my footsteps roam; Where it began my journey ends, Amid the scenes of home. No other clime has skies so blue, Or streams so broad and clear, And where are hearts so warm and true As those that meet me here?

Since last with spirits, wild and free, I pressed my native strand, I've wandered many miles at sea, And many miles on land. I've seen fair realms of the earth By rude commotion torn, Which taught me how to prize the worth Of that where I was born.

In other countries, when I heard The language of my own, How fondly each familiar word Awoke an answering tone! But when our woodland songs were sung Upon a foreign mart, The vows that faltered on the tongue With rapture thrilled the heart!

My native land, I turn to you, With blessing and with prayer, Where man is brave and woman true, And free as mountain air. Long may our flag in triumph wave Against the world combined, And friends a welcome—foes a grave, Within our borders find.



Oh, Would that She were Here!



Oh, would that she were here, These hills and dales among, Where vocal groves are gayly mocked By Echo's airy tongue: Where jocund nature smiles In all her boon attire, And roams the deeply-tangled wilds Of hawthorn and sweet-brier. Oh, would that she were here— The gentle maid I sing, Whose voice is cheerful as the songs Of forest-birds in spring!

Oh, would that she were here, Where the free waters leap, Shouting in sportive joyousness Adown the rocky steep: Where zephyrs crisp and cool The fountains as they play, With health upon their wings of light, And gladness on their way. Oh, would that she were here, With these balm-breathing trees, The sylvan daughters of the sun, The rain-cloud, and the breeze!

Oh, would that she were here, Where glide the rosy hours, Murm'ring the drowsy hum of bees, And fragrant with the flowers: Where Heaven's redeeming love Spans earth in Mercy's bow— The promise of the world above Unto the world below. Oh, would that she were here, Amid these shades serene— Oh, for the spell of woman's love, To consecrate the scene!



The Sword and the Staff



The sword of the hero! The staff of the sage! Whose valor and wisdom Are stamped on the age! Time-hallowed mementos Of those who have riven The sceptre from tyrants, "The lightning from heaven!"

This weapon, O Freedom! Was drawn by the son, And it never was sheathed Till the battle was won! No stain of dishonor Upon it we see! 'Twas never surrendered— Except to the free!

While Fame claims the hero And patriot sage, Their names to emblazon On History's page, No holier relics Will liberty hoard Than FRANKLIN's staff, guarded By WASHINGTON's sword.



The Chieftain's Daughter [See Notes]



Upon the barren sand A single captive stood; Around him came, with bow and brand, The red-men of the wood. Like him of old, his doom he hears, Rock-bound on ocean's rim: The chieftain's daughter knelt in tears, And breathed a prayer for him.

Above his head in air The savage war-club swung: The frantic girl, in wild despair, Her arms about him flung. Then shook the warriors of the shade, Like leaves on aspen limb— Subdued by that heroic maid Who breathed a prayer for him.

"Unbind him!" gasped the chief— "Obey your king's decree!" He kissed away her tears of grief, And set the captive free. 'Tis ever thus, when, in life's storm, Hope's star to man grows dim, An angel kneels in woman's form, And breathes a prayer for him.



Thy Will Be Done.



Searcher of Hearts!—from mine erase All thoughts that should not be, And in its deep recesses trace My gratitude to Thee!

Hearer of Prayer!—oh, guide aright Each word and deed of mine; Life's battle teach me how to fight, And be the victory Thine.

Giver of All!—for every good— In the Redeemer came— For raiment, shelter, and for food, I thank Thee in His name.

Father and Son and Holy Ghost! Thou glorious Three in One! Thou knowest best what I need most, And let Thy will be done.



Life in the West.



Ho! brothers—come hither and list to my story— Merry and brief will the narrative be. Here, like a monarch, I reign in my glory— Master am I, boys, of all that I see! Where once frowned a forest, a garden is smiling— The meadow and moorland are marshes no more; And there curls the smoke of my cottage, beguiling The children who cluster like grapes round my door. Then enter, boys; cheerly, boys, enter and rest; The land of the heart is the land of the West! Oho, boys!—oho, boys!—oho!

Talk not of the town, boys—give me the broad prairie, Where man, like the wind, roams impulsive and free: Behold how its beautiful colors all vary, Like those of the clouds, or the deep-rolling sea! A life in the woods, boys, is even as changing; With proud independence we season our cheer, And those who the world are for happiness ranging, Won't find it at all if they don't find it here. Then enter, boys; cheerly, boys, enter and rest! I'll show you the life, boys, we live in the West! Oho, boys!—oho, boys!—oho!

Here, brothers, secure from all turmoil and danger, We reap what we sow, for the soil is our own; We spread hospitality's board for the stranger, And care not a jot for the king on his throne. We never know want, for we live by our labor, And in it contentment and happiness find; We do what we can for a friend or a neighbor, And die, boys, in peace and good-will to mankind. Then enter, boys; cheerly, boys, enter and rest; You know how we live, boys, and die in the West! Oho, boys!—oho, boys!—oho!



Song of Marion's Men. [See Notes]



In the ranks of Marion's band, Through morass and wooded land, Over beach of yellow sand, Mountain, plain, and valley, A southern maid, in all her pride, Marched gayly at her lover's side, In such disguise That e'en his eyes Did not discover Sallie!

When returned from midnight tramp, Through the forest dark and damp, Oh his straw-couch in the camp, In his dreams he'd dally With that devoted, gentle fair, Whose large black eyes and flowing hair So near him seem, That in his dream, He breathes his love for Sallie!

Oh, what joy, that maiden knew, When she found her lover true!— Suddenly the trumpet blew, Marion's men to rally! To ward the death-spear from his side!— In battle by Santee she died!— Where sings the surge A ceaseless dirge Near the lone grave of Sallie.



Janet McRea. [See Notes]



She heard the fight was over, And won the wrath of fame! When tidings from her lover, With his good war-steed came: To guard her safely to his tent, The red-men of the woods were sent. They led her where sweet waters gush! Under the pine-tree bough! The tomahawk is raised to crush— 'Tis buried in her brow!— She sleeps beneath that pine-tree now!

Her broken-hearted lover In hopeless conflict died! The forest-leaves now cover That soldier and his bride! The frown of the Great Spirit fell Upon the red-men like a spell! No more those waters slake their thirst, Shadeless to them that tree! O'er land and lake they roam accurst, And in the clouds they see Thy spirit, unavenged, McRea!



Lisette.



When Love in myrtle shades reposed, His bow and darts behind him slung; As dewey twilight round him closed, Lisette these numbers sung: "O Love! thy sylvan bower I'll fly while I've the power; Thy primrose way leads maids where they Love, honor, and obey!"

"Escape," the boy-god said, "is vain," And shook the diamonds from his wings: "I'll bind thee captive to my train, Fairest of earthy things!" "Go, saucy archer, go! I freedom's value know: Begon, I pray—to none I'll say Love, honor, and obey!"

"Speed, arrow, to thy mark!" he cried— Swift as a ray of light it flew! Love spread his purple pinions wide, And faded from her view! Joy filled that maiden's eyes— Twin load-stars from the skies!— And one bright day her lips DID say, "Love, honor, and obey!"



My Mother's Bible.



This book is all that's left me now!— Tears will unbidden start— With faltering lip and throbbing brow I press it to my heart. For many generations past, Here is our family tree; My mother's hands this Bible clasped, She, dying, gave it me.

Ah! well do I remember those Whose names these records bear; Who round the hearth-stone used to close After the evening prayer, And speak of what these pages said, In tones my heart would thrill! Though they are with the silent dead, Here are they living still!

My father read this holy book To brothers, sisters dear; How calm was my poor mother's look Who leaned God's word to hear! Her angel face—I see it yet! What vivid memories come!— Again that little group is met Within the halls of home!

Thou truest friend man ever knew, Thy constancy I've tried: Where all were false I found thee true, My counselor and guide. The mines of earth no treasures give That could this volume buy: In teaching me the way to live, It taught me how to die.



"The Dog-Star Rages."



Unseal the city fountains, And let the waters flow In coolness from the mountains Unto the plains below. My brain is parched and erring, The pavement hot and dry, And not a breath is stirring Beneath the burning sky.

The belles have all departed— There does not linger one! Of course the mart's deserted By every mother's son, Except the street musician And men of lesser note, Whose only earthly mission Seems but to toil and vote!

A woman—blessings on her!— Beneath my window see; She's singing—what an honor!— Oh! "Woodman, spare that tree!" Her "man" the air is killing— His organ's out of tune— They're gone, with my last shilling, [See Notes (1)] To Florence's saloon. [See Notes (2)]

New York is most compactly Of brick and mortar made— Thermometer exactly One hundred in the shade! A furnace would be safer Than this my letter-room, Where gleams the sun, a wafer, About to seal my doom.

The town looks like an ogre, The country like a bride; Wealth hies to Saratoga, And Worth to Sunny-side. [See Notes (3)] While fashion seeks the islands Encircled by the sea, Taste find the Hudson Highlands More beautiful and free.

The omnibuses rumble Along their cobbled way— The "twelve inside" more humble Than he who takes the pay: From morn till midnight stealing, His horses come and go— The only creatures feeling The "luxury of wo!" [See Notes (4)]

We editors of papers, Who coin our brains for bread By solitary tapers While others doze in bed, Have tasks as sad and lonely, However wrong or right, But with this difference only, The horses rest at night.

From twelve till nearly fifty I've toiled and idled not, And, though accounted thrifty, I'm scarcely worth a groat; However, I inherit What few have ever gained— A bright and cheerful spirit That never has complained.

A stillness and a sadness Pervade the City Hall, And speculating madness Has left the street of Wall. The Union Square looks really Both desolate and dark, And that's the case, or nearly, From Battery to Park.

Had I a yacht, like Miller, That skimmer of the seas— A wheel rigged on a tiller, [See Notes (5)] And a fresh gunwale breeze, A crew of friends well chosen, And all a-taunto, I Would sail for regions frozen— I'd rather freeze than fry.

Oh, this confounded weather! (As some one sang or said,) My pen, thought but a feather, Is heavier than lead; At every pore I'm oosing— (I'm "caving in" to-day)— My plumptitude I'm losing, And dripping fast away.

I'm weeping like the willow That droops in leaf and bough— Let Croton's sparkling billow Flow through the city now; And, as becomes her station, The muse will close her prayer: God save the Corporation! Long live the valiant Mayor! [See Notes (6)]



A Legend of the Mohawk.



In the days that are gone, by this sweet-flowing water, Two lovers reclined in the shade of a tree; She was the mountain-king's rosy-lipped daughter, The brave warrior-chief of the valley was he. Then all things around them, below and above, Were basking as now in the sunshine of love— In the days that are gone, by this sweet-flowing stream.

In the days that are gone, they were laid 'neath the willow, The maid in her beauty, the youth in his pride; Both slain by the foeman who crossed the dark billow, And stole the broad lands where their children reside; Whose fathers, when dying, in fear looked above, And trembled to think of that chief and his love, In the days that are gone, by this sweet flowing stream.



The Ball-Room Belle.

(Music by horn.)



The moon and all her starry train Were fading from the morning sky, When home the ball-room belle again Returned, with throbbing pulse and brain, Flushed cheek and tearful eye.

The plume that danced above her brow, The gem that sparkled in her zone, The scarf of spangled leaf and bough, Were laid aside—they mocked her now, When desolate and lone.

That night how many hearts she won! The reigning belle, she could not stir, But, like the planets round the sun, Her suitors followed—all but one— One all the world to her!

And she had lost him!—Marvel not That lady's eyes with tears were wet! Though love by man is soon forgot, It never yet was woman's lot To love and to forget.



We Were Boys Together.

(Music by Russell.)



We were boys together, And never can forget The school-house near the heather, In childhood where we met; The humble home to memory dear, Its sorrows and its joys; Where woke the transient smile or tear, When you and I were boys.

We were youths together, And castles built in air, Your heart was like a feather, And mine weighed down with care; To you came wealth with manhood's prime, To me it brought alloys— Foreshadowed in the primrose time. When you and I were boys.

We're old men together— The friends we loved of yore, With leaves of autumn weather, Are gone for evermore. How blest to age the impulse given, The hope time ne'er destroys— Which led our thoughts from earth to heaven, When you and I were boys!



Oh, Boatman, Haste!

(Music by Balfe.)



Twilight.

Oh, boatman, haste!—The twilight hour Is closing gently o'er the lea! The sun, whose setting shuts the flower. Has looked his last upon the sea! Row, then, boatman, row! Row, then, boatman, row! Row!—aha!—we've moon and star! And our skiff with the stream is flowing. Heigh-ho!—ah!—heigh-ho!— Echo responds to my sad heigh-ho!

Midnight.

Oh, boatman, haste!—The sentry calls The midnight hour on yonder shore, And silvery sweet the echo falls As music dripping from the oar! Row, then, boatman, row! Row, then, boatman, row! Row!—afar fade moon and star! While our skiff with the stream is flowing! Heigh-ho!—ah!—heigh-ho!— Echo responds to my sad heigh-ho.

Dawn.

Oh, boatman haste!—The morning beam Glides through the fleecy clouds above: So breaks on life's dark, murm'ring stream, The rosy dawn of woman's love! Row, then, boatman, row! Row, then, boatman, row! Row!—'Tis day!—away—away! To land with the stream we are flowing! Heigh-ho!—dear one—ho! Beauty responds to my glad heigh-ho!



Funeral Hymn.



"Man dieth and wasteth away, And where is he?"—Hark! from the skies I hear a voice answer and say, "The spirit of man never dies: His body, which came from the earth, Must mingle again with the sod; But his soul, which in heaven had birth, Returns to the bosom of God."

No terror has death, or the grave, To those who believe in the Lord— We know the Redeemer can save, And lean on the faith of his word; While ashes to ashes, and dust We give unto dust, in our gloom, The light of salvation, we trust, Is hung like a lamp in the tomb.

The sky will be burnt as a scroll— The earth, wrapped in flames, will expire; But, freed from all shackles, the soul Will rise in the midst of the fire. Then, brothers, mourn not for the dead, Who rest from their labors, forgiven; Learn this from your Bible instead, The grave is the gateway to heaven.

O Lord God Almighty! to Thee We turn as our solace above; The waters may fail from the sea, But not from thy fountains of love: Oh, teach us Thy will to obey, And sing with one heart and accord, "He gave and he taketh away, And praised be the name of the Lord!"



O'er the Mountains.



Some spirit wafts our mountain lay— Hili ho! boys, hili ho! To distant groves and glens away! Hili ho! boys, hili ho! E'en so the tide of empire flows— Ho! boys, hili ho! Rejoicing as it westward goes! Ho! boys, hili ho! To refresh our weary way Gush the crystal fountains, As a pilgrim band we stray Cheerly o'er the mountains.

The woodland rings with song and shout! Hili ho! boys, hili ho! As though a fairy hunt were out! Hili ho! boys, hili ho! E'en so the voice of woman cheers— Ho! boys, hili ho! The hearts of hardy mountaineers! Ho! boys, hili ho! Like the glow of northern skies Mirrored in the fountains, Beams the love-light of fond eyes, As we cross the mountains.



Woman.



Ah, woman!—in this world of ours, What boon can be compared to thee?— How slow would drag life's weary hours, Though man's proud brow were bound with flowers, And his the wealth of land and sea, If destined to exist alone, And ne'er call woman's heart his own!

My mother!—At that holy name, Within my bosom there's a gush Of feeling, which no time can tame— A feeling, which, for years of fame, I would not, could not, crush! And sisters!—ye are dear as life; But when I look upon my wife, My heart-blood gives a sudden rush, And all my fond affections blend In mother—sisters—wife and friend!

Yes, woman's love is free from guile, And pure as bright Aurora's ray; The heart will melt before her smile, And base-born passions fade away! Were I the monarch of the earth, Or master of the swelling sea, I would not estimate their worth, Dear woman, half the price of thee.



Rosabel.



I miss thee from my side, beloved, I miss thee from my side; And wearily and drearily Flows Time's resistless tide. The world, and all its fleeting joys, To me are worse than vain, Until I clasp thee to my heart, Beloved one, again.

The wildwood and the forest-path, We used to thread of yore, With bird and bee have flown with thee, And gone for ever more! There is no music in the grove, No echo on the hill; But melancholy boughs are there— And hushed the whip-poor-will.

I miss thee in the town, beloved, I miss thee in the town; From morn I grieve till dewy eve Spreads wide its mantle brown. My spirit's wings, that once could soar In Fancy's world of air, Are crushed and beaten to the ground By life-corroding care.

No more I hear thy thrilling voice, Nor see thy winning face; That once would gleam like morning's beam, In mental pride and grace: Thy form of matchless symmetry, In sweet perfection cast— Is now the star of memory That fades not with the past.

I miss thee everywhere, beloved, I miss thee everywhere; Both night and day wear dull away, And leave me in despair. The banquet-hall, the play, the ball, And childhood's sportive glee, Have lost their spell for me, beloved, My souls is full of thee!

Has Rosabel forgotten me, And love I now in vain? If that be so, my heart can know No rest on earth again. A sad and weary lot is mine, To love and be forgot; A sad and weary lot beloved— A sad and weary lot!



The Tyrant Sway.



The heart that owns thy tyrant sway, Whate'er its hopes may be, Is like a bark that drifts away Upon a shoreless sea! No compass left to guide her on, Upon the surge she's tempest-torn— And such is life to me!

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