Изображения страниц

My tyrant husband-forged the tale,
Which chains me-in this dismal cell;
My fate unknown-my friends bewail;
Oh! jailer, haste-that fate to tell;
Oh! haste-my father's heart to cheer:
His heart, at once-'twill grieve, and glad,
To know, though kept a captive here,
I am not mad;-I am not mad.

He smiles-in scorn, and turns the key;
He quits the grate; I knelt in vain;
His glimmeriug lamp, still, still I see-
'Tis gone, and all is gloom again.
Cold-bitter cold!-No warmth! no light!
Life, all thy comforts once I had;
Yet here I'm chained, this freezing night,
Although not mad; no, no, not mad.

'Tis sure some dream,-some vision vain;
What! I the child of rank-and wealth,
Am I the wretch-who clanks this chain,
Bereft of freedom,-friends and health?
Ah! while I dwell on blessings fled,

Which never more-my heart must glad,
How aches my heart,-how burns my head;
But 'tis not mad;-no 'tis not mad.

Hast thou, my child-forgot ere this,
A mother's face-a mother's tongue?
She'll ne'er forget your parting kiss,

Nor round her neck-how fast you clung;
Nor how with me-you sued to stay;
Nor how that suit-your sire forbade;
Nor how I'll drive such thoughts away;

They'll make me mad;-they'll make me mad.

His rosy lips, how sweet they smiled!
His mild blue eyes, how bright they shone!
None-ever bore a lovelier child:

And art thou now forever-gone?

And must I never see thee more,

My pretty, pretty, pretty lad?
I will be free! unbar the door?

I am not mad;-I am not mad.

Oh! hark! what mean those yells, and cries?
His chain-some furious madman breaks;
He comes, I see his glaring eyes;

Now, now-my dungeon-grate he shakes.
Help! help!-He's gone! Oh! fearful wo,
Such screams to hear, such sights to see!
My brain, my brain-I know, I know,
I am not mad, but soon shall be.

Yes, soon;-for, lo you!-while I speak-
Mark how yon Demon's eye-balls glare!
He sees me; now, with dreadful shriek,
He whirls a serpent-high in air.
Horror!-the reptile-strikes his tooth-
Deep in my heart, so crushed and sad;
Ay, laugh, ye fiends; I feel the truth;

Your task is done!—I'm mad! I'm mad!


"In the year 1821, a Mrs. Blake perished in a snow-storm in the night-time, while travelling over a spur of the Green Mountains in Vermont. She had an infant with her, which was found alive and well in the morning, being carefully wrapped in the mother's clothing."

The cold winds-swept the mountain's height,
And pathless-was the dreary wild,
And, 'mid the cheerless hours of night,
A mother wander'd—with her child :
As through the drifting snow sue press'd,
The babe-was sleeping-on her breast.

And colder still the winds did blow,

And darker hours of night came on, And deeper grew the difting snow :

Her limbs were chill'd, her strength-was gone: "Oh, God!" she cried, in accents wild, "If I must perish, save my child!"

She stripd'd her mantle from her breast,
And bared her bosom to the storm,
And round the child-she wrapp'd the vest,
And smiled-to think her babe was warm.
With one cold kiss-one tear she shed,
And sunk-upon her snowy bed.

At dawn-a traveller passed by,
And saw her 'neath a snowy vail;
The frost of death-was in her eye,
Her cheek was cold, and hard, and pale;
He moved the robe from off the child,
The babe look'd up-and sweetly smiled!



Ah! can I now in words impart,
What hopes and fears my mind assail,
The tortures of a wounded heart,
No tongue can tell the tender tale;
I think of her who first did gain
My love; its fondness none can tell;
'Tis you alone can ease my pain,
My sweet, my lovely Rosabelle.

My waking thought, my nightly dream,
With thy loved image will not part;
And when alone, 'tis ofttimes seen
In the recesses of my heart.
Love dwells in thy soul-beaming eyes,
Pure as it came from heaven above;
I only breathe impassioned sighs,
While gazing on those orbs of love.

And now, dear girl, if yet ungiven,
A precious gift to me impart,
A gift I'll value next to heaven,
The tribute of thy pure warm heart.
An angel's charms in thee appear,
Thy smiles can every care dispel;
To me thou art surpassing dear,
My sweet, my lovely Rosabelle.



Softly murmur, gentle breezes,
Waft my thoughts to her I love,
Lightly lift her flowing ringlets,
O'er her tender bosom rove:
Tell her that her image ever

In my breast has made its home,
That my heart will never waver,
But will beat for her alone.

Softly murmur, gentle waters,
Flowing down the mossy glade;
Bringing perfume to the flowers;
Giving lightness to the shade:
Bringing fragrance to the forest,
In the pleasant hours of e'en;
To the fields a robe of beauty,
To the leaves a brighter green.

Softly murmur, gentle voices,
Soothing care and healing woe,
Bringing to the chasten'd spirit
Hopes, forgotten long ago.
Bringing comfort to the dying;
To the weary, giving rest;
Like the whispering of angels,

In the mansions of the blest.



When vile Secession rears its dastard form,
Tramples on peace and then invokes the storm,
Rise, fellow-men, and with indignant brow,
Unfurl your standard and return its blow.
Strike for your noble land!

Avenge your country's wrongs!

Come from the hills where Freedom sits enthroned.
Come from the plains where Liberty has roamed,
Come from the sea, the river, and the land,
And join your brothers in the "Patriot's Band.”
Strike for your noble land!

Avenge your country's wrongs!

Strike for the land of beauty and of worth,
Strike for your land, the glory of the earth;
Strike for the land of liberty this day,
And victory shall round your banners play.
Strike for your noble land!

Avenge your country's wrongs!


The cottage was a thatched one, the outside old and


Yet every thing within that cot was wond'rous neat

and clean;

The night was dark and stormy, the wind was howling wild,

A patient mother watched beside the death-bed of her child

A little worn-out creature-his once bright eyes grown


It was the collier's wife and child-they called him "Little Jim."

« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »