LINES ON LEAVING EUROPE. 103 My lips are dry with vague desire,— My cheek once more is hot with joy My pulse, my brain, my soul on fire! Oh, what has changed that traveler-boy? As leaves the ship this dying foam, His visions fade behind-his weary heart speeds home! Adieu, O soft and southern shore, Where dwelt the stars long missed in heavenThose forms of beauty seen no more, Yet once to Art's rapt vision given ! O, still the enamored sun delays, And pries through fount and crumbling fane, To win to his adoring gaze Those children of the sky again! Irradiate beauty, such as never That light on other earth hath shown, Hath made this land her home forever; And could I live for this alone Were not my birthright brighter far Than such voluptuous slaves' can be-Held not the West one glorious star New-born and blazing for the free Soared not to heaven our eagle yet Rome, with her Helot sons, should teach me to forget! Adieu, oh fatherland! I see Your white cliffs on the horizon's rim, And though to freer skies I flee, My heart swells, and my eyes are dim! As knows the dove the task you give her, When loosed upon a foreign shoreAs spreads the rain-drop in the river In which it may have flowed beforeTo England, over vale and mountain, My fancy flew from climes more fairMy blood, that knew its parent fountain, Ran warm and fast in England's air. Dear mother, in thy prayer, to-night, There come new words and warmer tears! On long, long darkness breaks the lightComes home the loved, the lost for years! Sleep safe, O wave-worn mariner ! Fear not, to-night, or storm or sea! The ear of heaven bends low to her! He comes to shore who sails with me! The spider knows the roof unriven, While swings his web, though lightnings blazeAnd by a thread still fast on heaven, I know my mother lives and prays! Dear mother! when our lips can speak- And thou, with thy dear eyes on me— 'Twill be a pastime little sad To trace what weight Time's heavy fingers Upon each other's forms have had For all may flee, so feeling lingers! But there's a change, belovèd mother ! To share the heart once only mine! Room in thy heart! The hearth she left There are bright flowers of care bereft, And hearts-that languish more than flowers! She was their light-their very air Room, mother, in thy heart! place for her in thy prayer! NATHANIEL P. WILLIS. THE OLD WORLD AND THE NEW. 105 The Old World and the New. 'HE Muse, disgusted at an age and clime THE Barren of every glorious theme, In distant lands now waits a better time In happy climes where, from the genial sun In happy climes the seat of innocence, There shall be sung another golden age, The good and great inspiring epic rage, Not such as Europe breeds in her decay,- Westward the course of empire takes its way: A fifth shall close the drama with the day; Time's noblest offspring is his last. GEORGE BERKELEY. Death-Song of the Oneida Chief. 66 "A ND I could weep ;"-the Oneida chief "But that I may not stain with grief The death-song of my father's son, For by my wrongs, and by my wrath! To-morrow Areouski's breath, (That fires yon heaven with storms of death,) Shall light us to the foe; And we shall share, my Christian boy! The foeman's blood, the avenger's joy! “But thee, my flower, whose breath was given By milder genii o'er the deep, The spirits of the white man's heaven Forbid not thee to weep: Nor will the Christian host, Nor will thy father's spirit grieve, To see thee, on the battle's eve, She was the rainbow to thy sight! "To-morrow let us do or die! But when the bolt of death is hurl'd, The hand is gone that cropt its flowers: Its echoes, and its empty tread, Would sound like voices from the dead! DEATH-SONG OF THE ONEIDA CHIEF. 107 "Or shall we cross yon mountains blue, Whose streams my kindred nation quaff'd ; And by my side, in battle true, A thousand warriors drew the shaft? Ah! there in desolation cold, The desert serpent dwells alone, Where grass o'ergrows each mouldering bone, Like me, are death-like old. Then seek we not their camp,—for there "But hark, the trump! to-morrow thou Because I may not stain with grief THOMAS CAMPBELL. |